


this is the start of something wonderful

by spiderboyneedsahug



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Adrien Toomes is a dick to children, Another Homecoming fic from me? Guess what there's more in the works, Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Guilt, Hurt Peter Parker, I think Pepper wants to adopt Peter too, Minor Injuries, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker's guilt complex, Poor Peter Parker, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Pepper Potts, Self-Doubt, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony is trying to be a Dad and Peter is making it very easy, dad! tony, guilt complexes, kind of??, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-05-17 18:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderboyneedsahug/pseuds/spiderboyneedsahug
Summary: Peter got away from Toomes pretty well. He took the guy out, immobilised him, and made sure all the tech from the plane was took care of.Then came the guilt, and the remembrance of the ton of injuries he collected from the gruelling battle. He's just lucky he had some web fluid left over from the fight to get back home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know what you're thinking: Why has she made another fic about the aftermath of Homecoming? She's already done it once. The answer? My brain never shuts up, I get bored, and also there is no chance in hell that Peter gets out of that injury free. So have another Homecoming story in my improved writing style and a few more words!
> 
> Also featuring Peter Parker's helicarrier-sized guilt complex!

It’s not easy, dragging himself away from the crates after he webs them up. Toomes is stuck to the mess, unconscious for the most part. It’s with trembling, numb fingers that he scrawls onto a small, burnt piece of paper with a miraculously functional pen. He doesn’t have a clue where he found them or how, but Peter knows that he’s lucky to have.

 

Peter coughs harshly. He’s definitely spent too much time breathing in the smoke.

 

A small part of Peter wants to be worried about the guy, because he’s Liz’s dad and even if he is a terrible person he doesn’t deserve to suffer like this. The larger, more exhausted part of him wants to do nothing less than collapse into his bed and sleep off his injuries. He aches, like he’d been thoroughly swatted around and thrown into a blender. Well, maybe not _that_ much…

 

He’s lucky, though. Toomes’ wings should have put holes through him when they exploded, but here he stands, relatively okay and mostly free of dangerous injuries. A hot, wet pain is all he can feel above both sides of his collarbone and just above his navel. When the Vulture had stabbed those talons into him the first time, Peter had actually craved unconsciousness. It had been _terrible_. He’s pretty sure he screamed. Then he got picked up, dragged into the sky again — panic had reigned him then, because the last time Toomes pulled him up he had been dropped and nearly died. He only survived because Tony had come to save him. Tony wasn’t there to save him that time, and he didn’t have the protective suit either — and then Toomes slammed him into the floor, digging the talons in just a little deeper. He knows for a fact that he blacked out for a few seconds after he was slammed into the ground the second time, because when he opened his eyes again part of Toomes’ wing had pierced the fabric of his hood and had raised him slightly off the ground, body limp as gravity tried to pull him down to the Earth.

 

He faintly remembers being dropped after that, head smacking into the ground with a thump. His legs had been shaking so much when he stood back up, quivering with a mixture of shock and pain. Then Toomes’ wings exploded… And some dumb part of him literally walked through flames to save the man.

 

Tony was right. He is so painfully out of his depth. It’s only luck that allowed Peter to pull through alive.

 

Peter casts another look over Toomes and the crates. He’s just about out of webbing in that cartridge after that, but all the tech is secure and the Vulture isn’t getting away, so it’s okay. He might have to walk back to Queens. Peter releases a shattered sigh and wearily rubs his hand — it’s starting to blister from where he picked up the scorching hot metal of the wingsuit. It should be painful. It isn’t.

 

Most of his body is numb. He’s fifty percent relieved, fifty percent scared and one hundred percent ready to sleep through the next century. Peter looks up to the Coney Island Cyclone ride. He could perch up there until Toomes is taken in by the authorities. He probably should. He’s about to launch a web line at the rollercoaster when he recalls something.

 

He lost his mask under the building. It’s still there now, under tonnes of rubble and metal. His face is open for anyone to see, and even though he has a hood, that isn’t sufficient protection for his face. The distant wail of sirens reach Peter’s ears, forcing a bubble of panic to well up in his chest. The police can’t figure out who he is, _ever_. He casts one more look over Toomes. Everything is tightly secured and safe. Maybe Tony wouldn’t track him down and kill him for crashing his plane.

 

He takes out the empty web cartridge and swaps it for one of the full ones in the suit’s hoodie pockets, retaking his aim and pointing his web shooters at a building. It takes a huge amount of effort to pull himself into the air, strained muscles struggling to function. Lifting the building had been hard. He probably tore something. A lot of somethings.

 

It’s easier to sling the webs when he’s airborne. He doesn’t have to pull so hard to get moving, and although the buildup of lactic acid in the muscles of his arm is starting to weaken his grip, he doesn’t stop. He has to get home before May gets suspicious. Peter’s pretty sure he swings over sleek trucks that are probably Stark Industries’ property, going to clean up his mess. He’s too worn to feel the guilt he usually would.

 

The wind feels nice in his hair, like fingers. It’s cool and relaxing. Sounds carry across to him on the gusts, inane chatter and car engines filling his ears instead of echoing reminders of his gruelling fight earlier on.

 

A cold sliver of dread settles into his chest when the web shooters sputter slightly. It wakes him up quickly. Peter makes a face as he aims for furthest away buildings to conserve the web fluid. He dips a lot further at the lowest points of his swings, but he can’t find it in himself to care, or to do any kind of flips to regain lost height. He just keeps swinging until he can recognise buildings that are in Queens. His brain feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool, thoughts muddled and difficult to pick out from the other. Peter makes a face — he’s pretty sure he has a concussion. Buildings blend into one another, a hazy mess of brick and mortar, and it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to tell what’s where.

 

He nearly crashes into the wall of a building near his and May’s apartment. The landing is a little rough as he rolls across the gravelly surface of a platformed rooftop, tiny rocks biting into his already tender flesh. It hurts a lot and the hoodie offers just about as much protection as tissue paper. When Peter looks down he can see the gravel clinging to the bloody patches on the red fabric. He winces — he has no clue how he’s gonna hide the suit. Maybe under his bed?

 

Slowly and painfully he drags himself up the wall of his and May’s apartment. It takes a few minutes to open the window quietly enough to be unheard by May, even longer for him to actually crawl through the window. As soon as his shoes touch the carpet of his room he stumbles, only just catching himself before he hits the floor.

 

He realises how much he hurts all over. The sob that tears from his chest is quiet and directed into his sleeve — he can’t have May come in and see him, crying and covered in his own blood. She would lose it. And then she’d notice the suit and Peter would get murdered by her. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to explain to May why he’s back from Homecoming so early.

 

Peter’s knees give out and he falls as quietly as he can to the floor. From his knees he rolls onto his back, hissing in agony as the bruises are pressured. Every single part of him seems to be hurt, the blistering cacophony of input from across his body momentarily too much. He can’t really do much else asides from let the tears flow down his face onto the carpet. The material of the carpet scratches against his cheek; just another uncomfortable thing.

 

It takes about ten minutes for him to separate himself from the pain. It takes another five to stand up without tripping over. Peeling the suit off is possibly the worst experience of the night so far. Where there’s blood from an injury, the fabric sticks to him and forces a pained gasp out as soon as it is disturbed. He doesn’t have anything to help remove the suit. Peter crawls over to his bed and picks up a rogue shirt, folding the fabric up and shoving it between his teeth. He doesn’t bother to brace himself.

 

He tears the fabric from his body.

 

It’s weird, how his body reacts in stages. His eyes tear up first, quickly overflowing and running down his face. Then comes the cold feeling when cool air brushes against his bare torso and turns wet blood cold. Then comes the pain. He bites down as hard as he can onto the shirt and clenches his fist in his comforter, eyes screwing closed as he silently cries into the shirt. Any coherent thoughts he has left leave him within an instant, a mindless agony the only thing Peter can recognise as he shakily continues to remove the bloody fabric from his chest.

 

He doesn’t know how long he spends crying, but it’s long enough that his throat is starting to hurt and he is _definitely_ regretting the fact that he doesn’t have Mr. Stark’s suit.

 

Shower. He has to shower everything off. The dirt, the blood. Everything. There’s enough sense left in him to keep his boxers on as he stumbles out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, but before he goes he kicks the suit as far under his bed as he can.

 

May can’t know. Ever.

 

He doesn’t know if the hot shower is pleasant or painful. He can’t feel sand on his body anymore, and the red-brown colour of the water coming off of his body is slowly returning to clear, but every time a water droplet hits him it _hurts_. Peter can almost feel the water entering his wounds and washing them out. It’s gross.

 

Turns out getting stabbed is pretty painful.

 

He looks down to peer at the wounds and blanches a little at the sight. The one above his navel is the deepest and it’s the closest to his major organs —it’s hitting him now _just_ how close he was to becoming a skewer —, so he decides to keep a close eye on that one in case things get worse. Peter sucks in a breath and lathers soap on his fingers before digging it into the wound. Antiseptic would be better for it but he can’t get any of _that_ without May becoming suspicious, so he has to tough it out as the wound shrieks in pain and hot tears mingle with the shower spray. Keeping his cries in his chest is like choking. It looks like it’s already healing though, turning from an aggravated red into a raw, fresh scar tissue pink on the edges. He’ll have to dress the puncture wounds as soon as he’s dried off.

 

Peter turns the shower off and steps out, wrapping a towel around the damages so if May _does_ happen to come along, she won’t see them. He tip-toes to the kitchen as quietly as he can after being thrown off a plane and subsequently becoming a giant bruise, rummaging quietly through the drawers next to the knife block for the First Aid kit he _knows_ May keeps. As soon as he curls his fingers against the strap, he’s closing the drawer and heading back to his room.

 

As soon as he’s closed the bedroom door, he drops his towel and pulls on a new pair of boxers and some pyjama pants. Peter winces at the small droplets of blood that dribble down his abs from the puncture wound above his navel, dabbing roughly at them with the towel only smearing the red. The pain has become something manageable now, hot and aching but not overwhelming like it had been. He drops onto his bed roughly, biting back a groan of pain, and rummages through the First Aid kit for the gauze pads and roller bandages he knows May has in excess. He doesn’t want to look at the wounds again, but he doesn’t want them to bleed onto his bed sheets either, so Peter reluctantly places a gauze pad on the puncture wound above his navel and keeps it there with a finger as he starts to wind the roller bandage around the width of his torso.

 

By the time he’s done with that first puncture wound, bandages cover the majority of his lower torso. Peter flushes a little — he knows he’s not meant to use that much, but he was so paranoid that the gauze pad wouldn’t stay in place if he didn’t. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do. Peter can’t do much else for the two wounds above his collarbone and those on his back — Toomes had been aiming to _kill_ him and it really shows now the adrenaline has faded — because of how they’re placed, so he just pulls on a shirt, ignoring how the sensitive flesh of the areas can detect every fibre of material _dragging_ over the wounds, and hopes for the best that they don’t get infected. Peter snags another small roll of bandaging and a few gauze pads, shoving them quickly under his pillow. If May notices, and she probably will, he’ll make up an excuse then. He’s dead on his feet now.

 

The journey into the kitchen to put the First Aid kit back is a lot easier now he’s dressed and _not_ about to drop blood everywhere. He slips under his comforter as soon as he closes his bedroom door again, and heads towards a restless sleep.

 

It doesn’t stay quiet for long.

 

_Toomes dropping him, the free-fall terrifying and so different to web slinging around New York_

 

_The Decathlon championship, the Chitauri energy core, oh god they’re all gonna die I can’t let them-!_

 

 _The ferry, nearly killing the people he tries so_ hard _to protect, shamepanicfeardreadhatred in his veins when Mr. Stark takes the suit. They’re directed at himself, because he deserves it, he doesn’t deserve the suit but he deserves to hate himself like this_

 

 _Liz’s dad- no, Toomes-_ no _, the Vulture holding him at gunpoint, threatening everyone he loves and he can’t kill May I won’t let him hurt them never never never never never_

 

_The fight with the guy as he ran out of school, only to get pummelled into the side of a bus and the electricity crackling in his skin, oh god why am I doing this it hurts so much but I have to stop Toomes. Getting up, going back in for more. Ribs groaning under each metal-clad hit. Ned saving him with the discarded web shooters_

 

_No no no no no no I can’t bring Ned into this he’ll get hurt he’ll die I won’t let him get hurt-!_

 

_He shouldn’t be allowed to drive ever again._

 

 _The building. Choking. Crying. So, so alone. Everything hurts, can’t move, can’t breathe. Cracked ribs snapping under tonnes of heavy concrete and oh god,_ nobody _is coming to save me. Have to stop Toomes. He can’t be allowed to hurt anyone else. I won’t let Toomes be the reason families are torn apart by crime_

 

 _Fighting on the plane. Constantly being two steps away from a fall that will kill him. G-forces strong enough to rip him apart pulling at his body whenever he moves. Useless web shooters, faltering grip and Toomes can fly, so he’s screwed. Falling into the jet turbine. Seeing the Vulture suit coming at him too fast in the skies, unaffected by how fast they’re travelling and the_ second _Peter lets his control falter will be the same second that decides if he lives or if he dies_

 

_The crash. Trying so desperately to hold onto the plane’s wings. The horrible, painful vibrations of the plane against the sand grinding directly on his snapped ribs and at least he can’t hear his screams above the deafening sound of metallic shrieking and-_

 

_Each time his body impacts the sand is just a little less painful than the last_

 

_Pulling his mask- standing up. No noise? Why is he deaf?_

 

_Toomes-!_

 

_Jumping up, rolling low. Fighting. Being stabbed by those talons. Up, up, up- down, hard against the floor._

 

_It’s all fuzzy._

 

_Can’t let anyone else get hurt-_

 

 

Peter gasps awake. The tears in his eyes — he hasn’t cried in his sleep since Ben, and the unconscious display of vulnerability makes him feel a little unnerved — make it difficult to see what’s touching him, but common sense and the familiar perfumed smell tell him that it’s May. His body clock says it’s around midday already, and the light filtering through the curtains consolidates that knowledge. His room is still shadowed — he’s taken to keeping his room as dark as possible when he first wakes up so his enhanced eyesight doesn’t start the day off with a migraine.

 

Peter frowns in realisation. He slept through his alarm? Man, fighting Toomes was _exhausting_.

 

Peter’s eyes involuntarily twitch a little in response to the pain that flares up as he weakly rubs his tears away. He doesn’t ache all over like he did last night, but it’s still no walk in the park.

“May?”

“Hey, baby. You slept through your alarm. Thought I’d wake you up.”

“Thanks. God, I’m so-“ Peter makes sure to only stretch slightly, as to not disturb the still-aching wounds in his torso, “ _Tired_. Yeesh.” He yawns and slowly drags himself upright in the bed, scrubbing roughly at the sleep dust around his eyes.

 

The aches across his body have resolved into more focused sensations. Peter can tell where each puncture wound is. He fancies he can feel each one slowly healing if he isolates the sensation from all others. His cheekbone aches a little too acutely to just be bruised, and so does the bone under his left eyebrow. They're probably fractured. He’s glad the room is so dark, because it’s the only thing that’s stopped May from freaking out about his bruises.

 

He’s also thankful that Homecoming took place on a Friday. Weekend joys, right? At least he doesn’t have to be in school with six puncture wounds and a load of bruising.

“-so I was thinking we could chill out today, maybe watch some- Peter? You listening?” Peter snaps back to attention immediately. May is looking at him weirdly, and a small part of him fears she can see the bruising.

“I- Oh! Yeah, I’m listening. Movie day?”

“Movie day. We got junk food, bad TV and nothing to do. You up for that?”

“Always.” Peter smiles at May and she ruffles his hair before leaving his room. He’s grateful for the privacy.

 

As soon as his bedroom door closes, Peter stands up, carefully pulling the shirt off. The injuries — still there, which means they’re deeper than he thought — have bled through the gauze, and upon inspection of the dark material of his sleep shirt, have started to show through. He winces. It’s easier to redress the injuries this time, now his vision isn’t swimming from a concussion, and he finishes up quickly. By the time Peter is dressed (with a hoodie to replace his shirt. He can’t go into the kitchen with blood on him or with his bruised face clear to see) and clean, May has put on some movie and is sat down, swathed in blankets. He walks into the living area.

 

It takes less than three seconds for May to notice his arrival, and in those same three seconds he’s on the couch next to May, blankets suffocating him. Peter blinks.

“You hungry?” Peter doesn’t want May to be up and about just because he wants something, but his stomach is _screaming_ for something and he did fight a giant, metal-suited crazy bird man last night, so he’s a little less resistant to the offer than normal.

“Mmm. Yeah.”

“You sit down here, I’ll make something.”

“But May, I can make something-”

“Nope! You had a late night, you must be exhausted.” Peter raises an eyebrow, although he doubts May can see it under the hoodie and given the darkness in the living room. She isn’t entirely wrong; he _did_ have a late night, except it was fighting his date’s dad instead of dancing with his date. _God_ , his life is crazy weird.

“Mmm. You’re not wrong.” Peter nuzzles into the blankets. They smell safe, like home. It’s a nice change to the lingering smoke scent that hasn’t left his nose yet. The movie playing — he can tell from dialogue alone that it’s Wonder Woman. He’s already seen the movie so many times, and he can’t get enough of it — is a comfortable background noise. Between the sense of comfort settling heavy into his bones, the quiet movie playing and the knowledge that May is safe and Toomes has been apprehended is enough to nearly drive him back to sleep again.

 

Then his phone starts to vibrate in his hoodie’s pockets. Peter blinks in hazy surprise. He’s so happy he stole his phone back out of Toomes’ car before entering the warehouse. May would have killed him _dead_ if he lost it, because they can’t afford to buy a new one and then if anything happened, he’d be screwed. He lifts the phone out of his pocket, wincing at the crack in the screen. Being crushed by a building isn’t good for it, apparently.

 

He’s less happy to see Happy’s caller ID on his phone. Of all the people who could be calling, he gets the one person he doesn’t actively want to engage with anymore. Parker luck strikes again.

 

Toomes. Plane crash. Moving day.

 

In his panic, Peter denies the call and shoves his phone deep into his hoodie pocket. He is so _not_ talking to Happy. The man always seems so agitated and annoyed to be stuck with Peter, so really, Peter’s doing him a favour by declining. Especially now… Happy was in charge of moving day and Peter ruined that. He couldn’t just _talk_ to the man!

 

It doesn’t have nothing to do with remembering how disappointed Mr. Stark was in him after the ferry incident. It has nothing to do with how Peter _knows_ they want him to talk about Toomes nearly killing him and getting the weapons.

 

Peter fakes a yawn and stretches slightly to cover up the grimace that rose to his face when he saw Happy’s ID — May was looking at him oddly from the kitchen. His hood slips down from his head, and the brightness of the lights temporarily blind him. As soon as colours and shapes return to his vision, he sees May leaning over him, reaching out to brush his face.

 

Oh, right. The bruising from Toomes’ metal-covered — metal covered? What an asshole — punches must be visible now the lights are on. And his hood is down. And that means May can see it-

“It wasn’t Steve from Brooklyn again, was it? Because I swear to god, if it was I’ll go down there and fight him myself.”

 

He can’t help himself. Peter snorts, amused. The mental image of May smacking Captain America into next week is one that won’t leave his head, and he’s not really sure he wants it to. He could use the humour. He’s had a pretty rough school week. Between his laughs, Peter manages to speak.

“No, it wasn’t him again, I promise.”

“Your face… Who did it?” The thunderous look on May’s face means heads are going to roll if he doesn’t make a credible excuse. Peter flounders internally.

“I didn’t get hit by anyone! I walked into a door!” Some part of him deep inside withers and dies, even as he keeps a straight face. Real smooth, Parker. _Reeeeaaaal_ smooth.

“I’m sorry?”

“Homecoming! Loads of people were everywhere, and it was getting late and really hot because everyone was moving around so I went to the doors to get some air and loads of people were swingin’ ‘em open and someone got me in the face. It doesn’t hurt that bad. It’s fine, I promise.”

“Are you sure, Peter? You don’t have to hide anything from me. If anything’s wrong, you can talk to me. Just me and you.” It’s moments like these that Peter wants to tell May about his being Spider-Man the most. It hurts to keep it from her.

“Nah, it’s fine! Nothing to be worried about, I’m just clumsy and I can hardly feel it.” He’s lying. He really _can_ still feel it. He’s pretty goddamn sure his cheekbone is fractured, it hurts so much.

“Okay, baby. Now eat your pancakes.” There’s a plate of pancakes under his nose. It smells amazing, and he’s unashamed to admit how loud his stomach growls. But there’s also the fact that May was talking to him _while_ she was cooking and it isn’t burnt? He may be a genius but he’s still pretty confused.

“Wait- Wha- I don’t know how you do that.”

“Do what?”

“I- You were talkin’ to me, then the pancakes were done and _you were talking to me_? Just doing both of them at once, and I swear you’re some kind of wizard. Is that a level of multitasking you achieve when you have a kid, or are you just magic?”

“Shhhhhh. Eat your pancakes. You’re exposing the magical community.” Peter rolls his eyes and shovels some pancake into his mouth. It tastes as good it it smells, and he falls back against the couch.

“Mmf. I knew makin’ you watch Fantastic Beasts was a good idea. You love it.” Peter accusingly points his fork at May, only half-invested in the movement. The other half of him is busy watching Diana Prince kicking ass on the front lines. _God_ he loves this movie.

“I do love it. I _larb_ it.” Peter grins, eyes closed. He’s missed this easy banter between him and May. Everything’s been so rough recently, and he’s happy now that he has the time to enjoy something so simple.

“You larb it?”

“I larb it. Like I larb _you_.”

“I _laaarb_ you, May. And these pancakes. Mm.” He knows he should really be eating something more substantial than pancakes, given both his metabolism and the aforementioned crazy bird man he fought yesterday, but he can’t bring himself to care. May makes good pancakes.

 

May sits back down next to him. Peter snuggles into her side, still swamped in blankets. The comfort is nice to have after nearly dying so many times last night, and it puts to rest the lingering sense of paranoia left from his anxieties. He stopped Toomes. He did his job. Nobody got hurt asides from himself, so that’s a job well done.

 

His phone vibrates again. He stealthily checks the caller ID again, frowning when Happy’s name comes up. He presses ‘decline’ on the broken screen. He’s done enough damage to Happy’s work for now, so he won’t make it worse by replying.

 

He knows he’s being a coward, running from the damages he caused. But nobody ever said he wasn’t allowed to run.

 

The phone calls continue throughout the remainder of Wonder Woman. Peter is just finishing up his second round of pancakes when his phone rings again, nearly making him drop his plate on the floor. He has a gut feeling that it’s Happy again, but against hope he checks his phone. And declines the call after seeing the ID.

 

He does, at some point during Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them, get a phone call from an unknown number. He doesn’t pick it up then, either. Maybe it’s someone from Damage Control or Stark Industries. He won’t pick up, not when May is around. Besides, the movie and the sensation of a full stomach is much nicer. The fifth time Happy calls him, Peter just turns his phone off. The bubbling anxiety in his lungs is a clear indication that he doesn’t need the stress right now.

 

His stress dies away completely as soon as the movie finishes. Everything feels like it could have returned to a pre-Toomes state of normality. The thrum of panic that has been present since the ferry has died down almost completely; his Spidey-sense is no longer telling him that just about everything is a threat and Peter could almost believe, just for a few seconds, that he is a normal teenager.

 

Peter stands up from the couch, stretching lightly. His muscles demand that they be used, but the puncture wounds wouldn’t really be too pleased with that, and that alone is enough to deter Peter from ‘going out’ — or in Spidey-speak, going on patrol. The restlessness is still settling in heavy, so as soon as he puts his plate in the kitchen he heads up to his room.

 

Yeah, he knows. A teenager, voluntarily cleaning their room? The boredom has made him turn to the very last resorts.

 

Peter closes the door to his room with an unnecessary degree of stealth before shucking his pyjamas onto the floor. There’s no blood showing through the gauze yet, which should mean it’s healing well. But to be safe, he should probably wear baggy, comfy clothes instead of tight-fitting ones. The rubbing on the bandages would kill him. He drags a well-loved black hoodie out of his wardrobe alongside a pair of denim trousers and shimmies them on, careful not to aggravate any of the multitude of injuries he collected fighting Toomes. It’s immediately warmer and more comfortable; enough so that he stays still just to enjoy how safe he is. As soon as he’s made sure that all his wound dressings are firmly secured, he starts picking clothes up off the floor. He turns his nose up at the smell of smoke that is disturbed when he hauls the tattered remains of his suit back out from under his bed. He turns it over in his hands.

 

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t upset by how the suit is beyond repair. He put so much effort and care into making it, and it hurts to see how shredded the fabric is. Hours of focused work and dedication, ruined. Peter thumbs at one of the punctures around the shoulder area of the suit mournfully. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to patch the suit back up this time. It’s seen glancing stab wounds and a couple of bullet grazes before and he could fix them up easily, but the damages — singes from the fires, abrasions from a multitude of falls and high-speed collisions, punctures from Toomes and slashes from the sharp metal of the wingsuit — seem much too numerous for his sewing skills. And he’s lost the mask under the building. He might to a swing-by of the rubble later on to see if it can be reclaimed — hopefully, no more rubble has been disturbed and nobody has visited the scene to make it just that little bit easier on him. With a sigh, Peter gently folds the suit and rests it as far under the bed as he can. He’ll fix that problem when he can afford to.

 

The rest of his room is easily cleaned. It isn’t that messy anyway, there are just a few discarded shirts lying around alongside crumpled balls of paper. He dumps the rogue items of clothing into the laundry basket and heads back into the living area. The curtains are opened now and the lights are off. The natural light flowing into the room is nicer on Peter’s still-overstretched senses, and the air coming through the window is a pleasant brisk.

 

Peter frowns a little. Someone tried to _kill_ him less than 12 hours ago, yet he’s going about his normal life as if it had never happened. Maybe it’s shock? Not that he’s taking the peace for granted, because things haven’t been this relaxed since before the bite, but it seems very out of place. Bizarre. Even as he walks back into his room to open his blinds and the window, he can’t shake off the sudden on-edge sensation that is rising the hairs on his arms.

 

Someone is at the door.

 

Now, after having fought a crazy bird guy, his first instinct is to grab the web shooters and get ready to protect May at all costs. Then he takes a step back, breathes slowly and measuredly, and thinks about it rationally. Toomes’ wings were destroyed in the explosion, and the man himself was immobilized. It’s not him. He _does_ sate his paranoia anyway by attaching the web shooters to his wrists firmly, but he exerts all the self control he has to stop himself from busting the door down to get to May. His Spidey-sense isn’t telling him it’s a _big_ threat, anyway. It’s just a low, thrumming vibration racing up and down his spine, which means it’s not a threat at the door, but they’re not a welcome guest. Peter stands upright.

“Peter? Could you come here, please!”

 

Now, Peter doesn’t like to swear. He likes to think he’s a pretty mature kid. Swearing is saved for only the worst of situations, the ones where he has to vent, but quietly.

“Fuck.”

 

Like this.

“Fuuuuuuck.” He scrubs roughly at his face with his sleeve-covered hands.

 

He doesn’t know why his anxiety has chosen now to skyrocket. He’s been mostly fine all morning. Now, walking towards the front door to the apartment, rounding the seemingly endless corridors, he’s starting to be able to hear his heartbeat again and it’s really getting annoying.

 

Happy thoughts, he tells himself. Happy thoughts. Watching movies with May and eating pancakes. Hanging out with Ned. Being with the people he cares about. The pride he felt after taking Toomes out by himself. Doing well in school.

 

He turns to face the slightly ajar front door.

 

And comes face to face with Happy.

 

Happy thoughts?

 

Not anymore.

 

_Toomes- building- choking- fires, hurts please stop- irritation from Happy, disappointment from Mr. Stark-_

 

“I thought you lost the Internship?” Peter is so, _so_ grateful that May’s voice snaps him out of whatever panic episode that was before he sunk too far into it. He takes the time to contemplate what May has said, and build up whatever blank mask of control he has left.

“I, uh, I- I-”

 

Mask of control, he says. The half of him that isn’t internally screaming is disappointed in himself. So what, he can face off against a giant bird suit but the second he sees a stern looking dude, he’s a stuttering mess. Peter’s cheeks flush and heat spreads up to the tips of his ears. He’s probably bright red right now, in front of Happy, who is probably here to take him to Tony who will probably kill him. Peter looks down at his socks.

 

Happy stares at Peter, then at May. One has a murderous expression adorning their face, and the other looks about two seconds away from a panic attack. He’s a little worried about that, actually.

 

Happy didn’t know what to feel when he saw Toomes bound up by webs, a hastily scrawled note attached to the crates nearby. There had initially been a moment of guilt, because the kid had been telling them about some dangerous guy and they hadn’t listened, resulting in Peter doing Happy’s job for him. Guilt turned to worry when Happy found he couldn’t find the kid anywhere on the beach. It had taken hours to get the most dangerous parts off the beach, and by that time he had forgotten about Peter’s involvement in the incident entirely.

 

Then Tony had been hounding his ass about it, chewing him out for every detail he could get his hands on, pretty much demanding that Happy go to Peter’s apartment the next day.

 

Which lead him to this.

 

A small wave of concern rises up in him as he watches almost imperceptible changes to Peter’s expression. The kid’s jaw clenches and unclenches in rhythm with his fists, and his eyebrows draw in a little. He looks up at Happy very slightly before staring back down at his feet.

 

The silence gets uncomfortable before he speaks up.

“Mr. Stark wants to see him.”

 

Peter looks up sharply at the same time May says, “Hell no.” Her tone leaves no room for any argument whatsoever. Peter doesn’t know if he’s relieved at her interjection or not, because he _should_ go and suffer the consequences to his actions.

“ _May_ -“ The syllable comes out strangled, upset. Peter sees Happy look at him weirdly and turns away from the stare. It’s petulant, but it makes him feel better.

“Peter told me that he lost the Internship, so why does Stark want him?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. I think he wants to reestablish it.” Once again, Peter looks up disbelievingly. Why would Mr. Stark want _him_ back? All he’s done is made things more difficult…  He sighs.

“May, it’s fine. I’ll go.” His arm is gently grabbed and pulled so he’s facing May’s loving, questioning gaze.

“You sure, Peter? You owe him nothing.”

 

Wrong. Peter owes Mr. Stark a whole plane, and probably some of the cargo inside it. But May doesn’t know that. As far as she’s aware, Peter might be about to get his Internship back after he lost it. No biggie, right? Peter’s heart warms when he realises her reluctance is because she saw how much it hurt Peter to lose the ‘ _internship_ ’.

 

“I want to.” _Liar_.

 

“Okay, Peter. You get your stuff on.” Peter nods wordlessly and walks back to his room. He is _not_ going to- to wherever Happy is taking him without headphones. The anxiety has thrown his senses back into overdrive, and everything feels magnified. He shakes his head. Happy is still waiting as he’s tying his shoelaces and shoving his headphones in his ears. It helps muffle out some of the excess noise.

“Love you, May.” Warm arms squeeze him tightly. He hugs back. Dread is rising fast in his chest as he takes those steps out of the apartment into the cold hallway.

 

Being stuck in the elevator with Happy is possibly the worst experience of his life. He can’t read a damn thing from the man’s stone cold expression and demeanor, and it only serves to increase his panic. Walking is slightly easier because at least then he has something to do, but being stuck with Happy keeps forcing his failure to the forefront of his mind. Peter keeps his head down as they walk towards the sleek looking car. The silence from Happy is unbearable — Peter can’t tell if this is his norm or if he’s judging him or what, but his heart is a loud, thumping beat in his ears and he’s starting to lose his damn mind.

 

Peter nearly groans happily when he makes contact with the luxurious, plush interior of the car. He nearly sinks straight into the seat, and even as he buckles himself in he takes the time to admire Happy’s taste — or is it Mr. Stark’s? — in interior design.

“Thank you.” The gruff words catch Peter’s enhanced hearing immediately, eyes snapping up to lock with Happy’s. They don’t sound reluctant or forced or even hesitant, which is pretty confusing because Peter’s pretty sure that people don’t offer thanks to the person who crashed their plane.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t thank you for- well, for stopping the Vulture guy.” Peter frowns. He doesn’t deserve thanks. He crashed a plane, caused god knows how much structural damage and nearly killed dozens of people because he got cocky. He deserves anything but thanks for his actions.

“It’s fine.”

“You didn’t have to. So thank you.” But he _did_ have to. He couldn’t let Toomes take that tech and modify it. So many people would have died. Peter closes his eyes and leans back into the seat.

“Mm.” **  
** “You did good, kid.” Peter looks up from his lap, surprise definitely showing on his face before he can stop it. He scowls at his slip up, and hums a neutral noise in response.

“You okay?” Happy’s thinly-veiled concern would be touching on any other day, but it’s just annoying now. Peter did what he had to do to stop people dying. It wasn’t _commendable_ , it’s his job. He hums again, fiddling with his headphones. He’s not really okay, no. He can still feel his throbbing pulse in each puncture wound. He aches a _lot_ and he can’t take any painkillers.

“You gonna speak?” Peter makes a noise in negative. He’s not going to give any more reasons to show how badly he’s handling it, or worse, how he isn’t fit to be an Avenger. Or even a hero.

 

Happy’s attempts to talk with him stop after that, instead becoming the occasional glance in the rear-view mirror that Peter refuses to meet. He doesn’t understand why Happy is- he doesn’t even know. Pretending? Pretending to care about Peter when before all _this_ , the older man couldn’t care less about what he was doing. Peter isn’t giving anyone any more reason to doubt him, and if that means not speaking, then he won’t speak. It’s not like Mr. Stark would want him back after seeing how unprepared Peter is, so he probably won’t be seeing much more of either of them.

 

Besides, Happy’s probably only staring at him because of the mess of bruising on his face. It’s not because he _cares_. It’s just because he doesn’t know where the bruises came from. Peter changes the song playing from his phone and puts the other headphone in, head resting on the car door’s window. The scenery is pleasant to watch as it comes and goes, the grey and muted colours of buildings quickly changing to the more frequent flashes of green that signifies their proximity to the upstate Avengers compound. It’s weird to think it was only a few days ago that Peter was almost desperate to be up here; to prove his worth as a hero. Now all he feels when he sees the compound come into sight clearly is dread and bubbling nausea.

 

The car comes to a smooth stop at the frontal entrance of the facility, and Peter shakily steps out. With all the paranoia and anxiety starting to get to him, Peter focuses on what few grounding sensations he can find — namely, the pain in his injuries. He trips a little upon fully exiting the car. The sun is just a little bit _too_ bright for his eyes, and they water involuntarily.

 

“What’s up, kid?”

 

Peter straightens at the voice, eyes searching for the familiar- _there_. It’s a little hard for him to believe that after everything he did, how much he screwed up, that Mr. Stark would wait out front of the compound for him. Happy walks over to Tony without hesitation, Peter trailing behind almost awkwardly. The way Mr. Stark is trying to subtly peer at the bruising on his face without making it obvious forces Peter’s gaze down to his shoes.

“O-oh. Nothing.”

“M’kay. Thanks for bringing him up, Happy. Can I have a word?” Happy nods. Peter watches as the two older men move slightly further away. If he took his headphones out he’d easily be able to discern their speech from everyone else’s, but he doesn’t really want to. The way Mr. Stark is looking over to him expectantly kicks him into gear a little; he puts his other headphone in so he won’t accidentally overhear anything.

 

Tony waits until Peter plugs in his second headphone before he speaks up in hushed tones.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t talkative on the way up, either.” He frowns as Happy talks. Loathe as he is to admit it, he has a soft spot for Peter. Seeing him like this… It doesn’t feel right. And the bruising. That wasn’t there during the ferry incident, and he couldn’t have gotten it today. He shares a look with Happy before turning back to Peter. The kid isn’t paying attention at all as he approaches, completely absorbed in his thoughts, so Tony claps him on the shoulder.

 

Peter whirls around instantaneously, eyes wide and searching for a threat. Tony takes a small step back, hands raised in surrender. It takes a few seconds for the shock to bleed out of the kid’s eyes, and each one notches up his worry more. Peter almost looks lost. He waits patiently as Peter fumbles around for his headphones, tugging them out quickly.

“Hey kid, with me.” A vague hand gesture has Peter looking up at him, confused, with a hint of something similar to panic sparking in his eyes. Tony ignores the flush of upset in his chest.

“Okay.” The word is hushed, almost a whisper. A quick look at the kid reaffirms what he’s already assumed: Peter isn’t ready for the press conference Tony is setting up. He doesn’t want Peter to freak out or anything; not while he seems so vulnerable and small. Tony leads Peter through the hall leading to the press conference room.

“Actually, stay here for a sec. I gotta talk to Pepper quickly.” He sets Peter down on a plush chair, ignoring the incredulous look he gets, and gestures _stay_ before bolting into the conference room.

 

He’s glad that it’s only Pepper and the people setting up the chairs in there. It makes things a little easier.

“Hey, Pep.” He calls lightly. Pepper turns toward him quickly, expression lighting up. Tony’s heart does a funny thing in his chest at the movement, because he has no clue what he did to deserve someone as brilliant and as loving as Pepper when he’s done so much wrong. It’s just one of those things to ponder on at night.

“Tony! You got the kid?” And that snaps him back to. Tony remembers how pale and shaky Peter was when he stepped out of Happy’s car. Hell, it isn’t even that sunny out and Peter was looking around like someone was shining a torch in his eyes. The kid’s senses are probably overstretched.

“Yeah, I got him. Listen, I don’t think he’s ready for this-” Pepper frowns as he speaks.

“You told me you thought he was ready to be an Avenger! What happened?”

 

He doesn’t know what happened himself. All he knows is his plane got hijacked, went down, but nothing was taken and the Vulture guy had been apprehended by Peter’s webbing. Which meant the kid was there. He would be lying if he says he isn’t scared to find out what Peter had to go through in his crappy homemade costume.

 

“No no no, not like that. I don’t think he’s ready for a _press_ _conference_. Kid looks like he’s about to freak out, and he’s only just got here.” Tony watches as understanding starts to dawn in Pepper’s eyes. She seems almost as concerned as he feels, knowing just about everything that happened last night.

“You want to cancel, then?”

“Yeah. I- I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I don’t want to push too hard, too fast.”

“You’re lucky nobody else is here. It’s easy to cancel now.” Tony laughs a little and moves in to hug Pepper. It always makes him feel a little safer, a little more confident in himself.

“I know. Have I ever told you that you’re amazing? Because you are.”

“Mmm. You owe me breakfast in bed.” Pepper murmurs into his ear. Tony snorts lightly.

“For you? I’ll cook a whole damn omelette.”

“A whole omelette?” She sounds amused now.

“I burn water, Pep. I’ll try my best.”

 

They stay like that, just hugging, for a few more seconds before Tony pulls away.

“You go take care of the kid.”

“Thank you, Pep. I mean it.” Tony’s hand lingers on hers for a few seconds longer before he pulls away and moves to leave the room.

 

Peter is still sat on the plush seat. It doesn’t actually look like he’s moved at all since Tony left, which is another cause for concern. The Peter he’s used to hardly stops moving, but now… Peter isn’t himself. Tony frowns.

“There, that’s done. We’re going to the labs for a bit, okay?” Peter doesn’t respond to the question, but he does stand upright. He winces slightly as he straightens his spine, hand haltingly rising to his stomach, but moves to stand beside Tony anyways.

“You okay?” There’s actual concern in Tony’s voice, unveiled and easy to hear. Peter is almost surprised by it — if Mr. Stark didn’t bring him here to yell at him for crashing the plane, then what…?

“Mmhmm.”

“You sure?”

“Mm.”

“Why aren’t you speaking?” Peter doesn’t respond verbally, shrugging in lieu of words. He fiddles with his loose headphone, refusing to meet Tony’s gaze.

 

Tony stares at Peter. It’s weird to see just how unreadable Peter can be when he wants to be, because he’s not getting a damn thing from the kid. Except maybe a few cuts and bruises, if the way Peter is holding his torso is saying anything. It takes a few seconds for Tony to be able to label the stifling emotion in his chest as concern, because Peter’s body language is all off. The tension around the kid’s shoulders should suggest a pulled something or a bruised rib, but Peter doesn’t walk any less quickly than normal. Tony can read Peter’s posture as something scared or defensive, but his eyes hold a kind of steely determination he hasn’t seen before.

 

All the pieces fit together within an instant. Peter’s choice of baggy clothing. His winces and stumbles when he walks. The tension in his frame. Peter’s been hiding injuries — more than just the bruising on his face — the entire time. Tony tries to not acknowledge the sour sensation in his chest as he realises Peter didn’t tell him, probably for a reason.  
“You’re not okay. What happened?” That is definitely _not_ the right way to go about it. Peter tenses, eyes wide, and hides his fists under his sleeves. Tony winces.

“It’s nothing.”

 

He takes a deep breath, gathering himself. He has to go for the comforting angle here. Peter’s a scared _kid_ who’s just come out of a situation that could have killed him.

“It’s obviously not nothing, kid. What’s wrong?”

“It’s _nothing_.” And if Tony notices the kid’s pace get a little faster and the resultant wince on Peter’s face, he doesn’t comment. He knows what busted ribs look like. Tony doesn’t push the matter any further as they keep walking to the labs, even though he really wants to figure out what happened so he can help the kid. He watches out of the corner of his eyes as Peter turns his music all the way up. He has half a mind to stop the kid right there and then, because Tony _knows_ that music that loud will hurt Peter’s ears. And he’s doing it voluntarily.

 

Yeah, he’s going to have to have a word with Peter later on.

 

“FRIDAY, unlock the labs, will you?”

_‘Will do. Welcome back, boss.’_

“Thanks, FRI. Kid, welcome to my humble abode.” Tony makes a sweeping gesture at the expanse of the labs. It’s probably the size of a school hall, and dotted with various workbenches. Equipment litters the place. Tony looks to Peter, searching for the childlike awe that should be on his face. He’s met by a weary look of interest.

“O-oh. It’s… it’s pretty cool.”

Tony sighs.

“Yeah it is. Sit down somewhere, there’s plenty of seats.” Peter takes a tired step into the lab. Tony doesn’t miss his slight limp and hissed intake of breath.

“Um- okay, Mr. Stark.”

He sighs, “Kid, relax. I’m not gonna bite your head off or anything.” Peter sits heavily on one of the couches in the lab, sighing contentedly.

“Uh- Yeah. Got it. Okay.”

“You want a drink? Soda, water, juice?”

“Do you have any ginger beer?”

“Of course I do. Catch.” And of course, Peter catches the can without even opening his eyes. He opens the can and sips from it, enjoying the spread of warmth through his throat and chest.

“Th- thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“No prob, kid.” Tony walks back from the mini fridge and takes a seat next to Peter. The kid is sipping quietly from his drink, refusing all and any eye contact with Tony. His eyes narrow.

“I assume you’ve already guessed why you’re up here?” Tony asks, and Peter turns an alarming shade of pale instantly, tensing up immediately. Tony adds that to the growing list of concerns about the kid.

“Y-yeah. About the- the crash-”

“We’ll talk about that in a minute. First, we have to talk about the other thing.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The ferry. And the whole taking-the-suit thing.”

“O-oh. Okay.”

“Right, listen. After what you did with the ferry,” Tony doesn’t miss the way Peter recoils, eyes looking towards the ground as he tenses further, “I took away the suit because you let it disillusion you. You let it allow you to think you would tackle shit way above what you could. I had to make you understand- I needed to show you that you that the suit didn’t make you invincible, kid. I don’t know what you were thinking-”

“It’s fine. I messed up, I had it coming. You don’t need to explain it, Mr. Stark. I don’t deserve the suit. You- You were right to take away the suit. I understand.”

Tony pauses, staring at Peter as the kid subtly makes himself smaller, grasping weakly at his shoulder. It’s a nervous mannerism, Tony can recognise it from a mile off. A particular word catches his ears out of all of them, though.

“You said _‘don’t’_.” Peter can sense Tony’s stare on him and closes his eyes.

“What?”

“You said you _don’t_ deserve the suit. Not you _didn’t_. You used _‘don’t’_.”

“So?”

“You stopped the hijacking. Pretty sure that’s a suit-worthy achievement.” Peter dismisses the thought of getting the suit back before hope can even start to bloom in his chest. He nearly killed so many people when he wanted nothing more than to protect them. And taking down Toomes wasn’t an achievement, it was a given. His job, even. Then he crashed the plane and delayed the movement of- of whatever it was up to the compound. He made too much damage to even warrant deserving the suit back. Peter glares at the floor and starts ticking his mistakes off on his fingers.

“The ferry. I nearly killed loads of people. Then I caused huge structural damage to a building trying to take down Toomes. Lucky there wasn’t anyone else there, because they’d be dead. I crashed your plane. I could have killed more people. The only reason nobody died is sheer luck alone. I can’t do this right, at all, because whenever I want to protect something I mess up big time. So I don’t deserve the suit.”

“Look, Peter-” Peter would have been surprised at the fact that Tony uses his name for once if it weren’t for the sensation in his chest that the room is getting smaller. Tighter. Harder to breathe. _Like the building-_

“-You really don’t need to take it so hard. Sure, you messed up, but you made up for it. You fixed the problem- Kid? You okay?”  
“I can’t breathe.”

There’s a few seconds of complete silence before Tony speaks up again, tone laced with shock, “You’re having a panic attack.”

 

Tony recognises the symptoms too well. Paling, shaking, hyperventilating. All the things that Peter is doing. A tendril of _something_ coils itself around his lungs, squeezing tightly at the panic he can see clear as day in Peter’s eyes.

 

“Oh jesus. Ah- I can’t-” Peter screws his eyes shut when Tony steps towards him, instead focusing on his breathing. It’s too fast and the oxygen isn’t getting to his blood, but he can’t _control_ how he sucks in each breath as soon as the last one is rushed out.

 

Tony crouches in front of Peter and stares up at the kid.

“Peter, I need you to look at me.” Peter lifts his suddenly too-heavy head, thoughts swimming in a hazy mess of oxygen deprivation, and makes a split second of eye contact with Mr. Stark before the guilt swamps him again and he has to look back down at the floor.

“I can’t- I can’t breathe- I- I-”

“Peter, buddy. Look at me.”

 

Tony’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and the vague sense of oppression evolves into a fully-fledged inability to suck in a breath. He distantly feels something crumpling in his grip.

 

“ _Shit_ -”

 

Peter less-than-gracefully flips over his chair and bolts out of the labs. He doesn’t know where he’s going. Anywhere but _there_. Hallways and doors blur into the same colourless void as he sprints, desperately trying to escape the crushing building-

 

- _concrete on him, metal scraping around into his flesh, oh god I’m going to die down here-_

 

Tears are starting to obscure his vision. Peter grits his teeth and keeps running aimlessly, instincts in overdrive and telling him to hide somewhere until the danger is gone-

 

 _-his ribs snapping in his chest as the ceiling pounds him into the uneven warehouse floor, water dripping down into his mouth and it tastes like dust, it smells like dust, everything is_ dust _-_

 

He doesn’t like the colour grey anymore.

 

He slows when he comes to a room decorated by huge, glass windows. The world beyond the panes looks serene, untouched by everything the world likes to bury Peter under. Peter scales the glass with haste, using his fingers to slide the pane upwards. In the small gap he makes he crawls outside, letting the glass slip back down before pulling his headphones out of his bag. A sigh of relief escapes him as the earbuds muffle out everything, leaving him to stare out onto the greenery surrounding the compound — anxiety is still sat uncomfortably in his lungs and he can’t draw in a deep breath, but everything seems more manageable when he’s detached from the rest of the world.

 

He stays like that, sat on the glass and listening to his music until the panic is reduced to a thrum under his skin and the building incident is out of his mind. He’s almost mortified at his lame reaction to Mr. Stark’s attempts to help him, even more so at the fact he even slipped up in the first place. What kind of hero is so crippled by his own panic that he freaks out in a _safe_ place? What kind of superhero can’t even fight off his own anxiety? Peter hangs his head in shame and turns his music up so loud it hurts. Why would anyone want _him_ to defend them when he can’t even save himself?

 

Why would Mr. Stark want to give Peter his suit back? He doesn’t deserve it. He knows that. Peter knows that he’s _weak_ and he’s _small_ and he’s just a _kid_ who couldn’t even protect himself. He couldn’t stop Toomes, even with his powers. It was luck that stopped Toomes. He endangered innocent lives — a flare of nausea rises in his throat as he remembers the ferry — for stupid reasons. He crashed a plane because he was too weak to find an alternative. Whatever punishment he gets, Peter knows he deserves for not being good enough.

 

He ruined too much for what little he saved to mean anything.

 

Peter knows he could never be an Avenger.

 

* * *

 

Tony watches, shocked, as Peter vaults himself over his chair and out of the labs. He was expecting some panic, maybe even a mild freak out. But a fully blown panic attack?

 

Something like concern rises up in his throat. Peter has never been like that in the time Tony has known him. Not after the Giant-Man smacked him out of the sky, not after nearly drowning, not even after the ferry incident. He had been scared and clearly upset about his screw up, but he didn't have a panic attack about it. So that means whatever Peter had to do to stop Toomes was _really_ bad, worse than splitting a ferry in half and trying to fix it alone. Tony isn’t even sure he wants to know what the kid had to go through to stop Toomes — he knows Peter got hurt by it, but he doesn’t know any specifics or what made them happen.

 

Tony shakes his head. Thinking can wait for now; his real priority is finding Peter before the kid does something stupid. He winces as he sees the crushed can — thankfully, it’s empty — of ginger beer on the floor. There’s a spotting of blood around the sharp, thin edges.

“FRIDAY, lock up the labs will you?”

 _‘Got it, boss.’_ The glass panels at the lab’s entrance go dull as the lights turn off. Tony doesn’t wait to watch the entire locking process, because Peter is _Spider-Man_ and can easily get even further away if Tony gives him the time. He breaks into a gentle jog down the halls. Naturally, given Peter’s enhanced speed, he’s nowhere to be found in the corridors by the time Tony reaches them.

“FRI, any ideas?”

 _‘In the Avengers common room, boss. He’s on the window.’_ Tony curses loudly.

“The window? _Shit_.” He ups his pace towards the common room. Tony’s actually prepared to bargain with Peter to get him to stick around at the compound for a little while longer, because for one, he knows the kid is hurt and he won’t take care of himself, and for two, he wants to thank him for stopping his tech from going onto the streets. There’s half a dozen other reasons he wants to keep Peter here — another one being the weird protective instincts that have cropped up since seeing Peter step out of Happy’s car this morning — but he ignores those as he slams to a halt in the common room. He’s thankful that it’s empty of any other Avengers.

 

Peter is clinging to the outside of the glass, his back facing Tony, just staring out onto the fields and trees that surround the facility. His posture seems to have loosened a little bit, which is good because it means the kid isn’t freaking out anymore, but his face is obscured by his hood so Tony can’t read much else from him. He can see a flash of white wire against the black of Peter’s hoodie, so he knows the only reason that Peter hasn’t noticed him yet is because his music is distracting him.

 

He winces in sympathetic pain when he catches the droplets of blood dribbling down the glass from Peter’s hand. That has to hurt like a _bitch_. Tony walks slowly over to the glass pane that Peter is rested against and taps it lightly. He knows Peter will be able to feel the vibrations from it. It’s just a case of waiting patiently as the kid tugs his headphones out and looks down at him, almost questioningly. Tony gives Peter a small wave and a smile. The kid doesn’t smile back at him, but he does lean down and slide open the glass pane, slipping back into the room quietly.

 

Peter’s basically nuzzling into his hoodie — making himself as small as possible, Tony realises with a pang of worry —, hands hidden within his sleeves and hood still up. It’s a child’s search for comfort in a situation perceived as dangerous, and it makes Tony’s heart ache.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Peter looks up at Tony, clearly confused. It’s probably pretty clear to Peter that Tony wants to know everything about last night’s events, but he’s holding his questions back; something for which Peter looks grateful for.

 

Tony gently grabs Peter wrist and exposes the cuts on his hand to sight. There are only a few, but they look pretty deep. Peter looks at them funnily, like he didn’t even realise they were there.

“We need to get those cuts cleaned up. Don’t want them getting infected now, do we?”

“N-no.”

“Come on. Let’s get you over to the medical wing.”

“I-is that really necessary? It’ll heal by itself pretty quickly, and it doesn’t even hurt that bad.”

“It won’t take that long, Pete.” He notices Peter’s flinch at the nickname, “And it’ll make me feel better, if you won’t do it for yourself.” That seems to convince the kid.

 

Tony isn’t particularly pleased about that. He can understand why Peter would be reluctant to go to the medical wing if he’s hiding injuries, but that shouldn’t override basic self-care instincts. Tony starts walking down the halls that lead to the medical wing, Peter following close behind, and tries to think over Peter’s odd behaviour. Maybe the kid feels guilty about something? Tony doesn’t have a clue why Peter is so despondent all of a sudden, but he will find out. In time. He won’t push Peter, not now.

 

They don’t talk as they walk into the medical wing. The silence is a little bit awkward (see: very). Even as Peter sits heavily on the hospital bed he stays quiet, but he does wince slightly.

“FRIDAY, scan?”

_‘Detecting multiple contusions, several minor lacerations across the body, six puncture wounds across the abdominal region on the front and the back, moderate muscle strain and a grade one concussion.’_

 

Tony blinks. Peter is sinking back into the hospital bed with each word FRIDAY says. Six puncture wounds. _Six_. Peter had been _skewered_ six times, and he hasn’t said a damn thing the whole time? His chest goes cold, like he’s been dunked in ice water. He should have asked as soon as Peter showed up if he was fine, not just leave it to some circumstantial situation. Hell, if it weren’t for Peter’s freak out, he would have never known about the kid’s injuries! Tony takes a deep breath and forces himself to stop pacing around the room. The baggy clothes make much, much more sense now — if it were him, Tony wouldn’t wear anything that could rub the injuries or aggravate them further. It’s a smart move. But it doesn’t change the fact that Peter didn’t tell Tony about these injuries. He knows the kid trusts him, even after the suit and the ferry, so that means it’s a matter of guilt. Peter didn’t tell Tony because he didn’t want to burden him.

 

This fucking kid.

 

“Please tell me that isn’t right. Peter?” The silence in response to his question is telling enough. Peter shifts around aimlessly, staring at his hands.

“... I dressed them as good as I can. I’m fine, I promise.”

 

And that statement shoves him into the awaiting pool of protective instincts, panic and guilt.

 

“‘I’m fine’? You’re fine?! Peter, this is literally the _opposite_ of fine! You were just _walking around_ with _six_ puncture wounds the whole time?!”

“I’m sorry sir- I’m sorry Mr. Stark, I’m sorry-" Now the kid looks like he's just a few seconds away from crying, wide brown eyes downcast and glassy. He takes a breath to try and calm himself. He can't make this worse for Peter. He won't. Technically, this is his fault for taking the suit away. He ignores how unsettled it makes him to hear the quiet, shuddering breaths from Peter and the sniffles that come with them.

“Fuck, kid. Don’t apologise. It’s not your fault. Jesus.” Tony rubs his face wearily. Peter looks too small against the hospital bed. Too young to be exposed to such a dark, brutal world. But- But he _is_ exposed to this side of life, and he _won’t_ pull back. Tony knows this now, so the least he can do is try to protect the kid more. He can be there for Peter when things get bad, or when he needs to get something off his chest. But he needs to let the kid trust him first.

 

“How did this happen?” Peter looks up at him, a confused look on his face.

“Uhm. Toomes’ Big Bird suit was made pretty well. Had little talons so he could pick up crates. And me.” Tony winces at the image Peter has oh-so-helpfully made for him. That must have hurt like a _bitch_ but Peter kept going. Kid’s got heart.

“You’re telling me everything that he did to you later on. No arguments. But for now, we’re going somewhere quiet. Actually, screw that, we’re going to the roof.” Tony brushes some imaginary lint from his shoulder while Peter gets back up to his feet. The hesitant, halting motions Peter uses are a dead giveaway to his injuries, and now Tony knows what they are he feels crappy for not helping the kid out sooner.

“The roof?”

“Yeah. You like being up in high, open spaces, right?” Now _that_ grabs Peter's attention, if the way he sharply looks up at Tony is anything to go by. The kid perks up slightly at the mention of the roof, and it definitely consolidates the thought. If it makes the kid that much brighter, he’ll sit on top of the Empire State building if he has to.

“Mmhmm.”

 

The walk to the roof is shorter, but more awkward. Especially because Tony keeps sending him sideward glances. Peter’s pretty sure that’s just Tony’s way of making sure he’s not about to keel over or die or something, but it makes him tense up every time without fail.

 

The fresh, cold air that rakes over him is a relief. It’s probably a part of his more spidery instincts, but being up high just makes him feel more safe than being inside or on the ground. Or, given recent situations, inside buildings. Peter sits down heavily, and Tony does too a few seconds after. It’s silent for a couple of minutes.

 

“I’m sorry for crashing your plane. And for screwing up. And for getting involved in general.” The quiet admission gets Tony’s attention pretty well. They stare at each other for a few minutes.

“What? Peter, you might have messed up with the ferry, but you did good.”

“I didn’t.”

“Peter,” Tony’s hand rests on the kid’s shoulder. He waits for the kid to look him in the eyes before continuing, “You did good. You stopped Toomes, and saved- well, potentially hundreds of people. That’s what you set out to do, wasn’t it? You did this because you want to help people.”

Peter blinks, “Yeah, I guess…”

“Trust me, the plane can be rebuilt. I’m not mad. Those people’s lives? They can’t be. You did great, Peter.”

“But still-” Tony wants to groan. He doesn’t, because it would make Peter feel even more self-conscious, but the thought is still there.

“If anything, I’m sorry that I left you to deal with that all by yourself. I should’ve known you were gonna keep going even without the fancy suit.”

 

Yeah, Tony would be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling guilty about taking the kid’s suit. It only got him more hurt, in the end.

 

“It’s not your fault, Mr. Stark! I knew I wasn’t meant to, but I couldn’t just let him do that and when I got hurt that was _my_ fault, not yours.” Tony smiles ruefully. Even after becoming a skewer, Peter wants to absolve Tony from his guilt.

“How about we call it even? I take your suit, you crash my plane. No need for any guilt or anything, we both messed up.”

“Would you really do that? I put you back _months_.”

“And I got you hurt by taking your better suit. Trust me, if you can forgive me we won’t have a problem.”

“I never needed to forgive you for anything, Mr. Stark. I did this.”

“And I gave you a multimillion dollar suit and left you to it. Kid, I could do this all day.” Peter sighs quietly. Tony can tell that there's still more to come; more ways that Peter can put himself at fault, but the kid is letting himself fall into a downward spiral of self-doubt and anxiety and he isn't about to let anxiety of all things tear this kid down. An idea pops into his head.

 

Tony pats the ground next to him and looks at Peter expectantly. The kid blinks owlishly back at him.

 

“C’mon, kid. Shuffle.” Tony pats the floor lightly again. Peter shuffles over slowly, careful not to disturb his injuries, and sits in the space next to him. Tony wraps his arm around Peter’s shoulders awkwardly. Tony doesn’t usually _do_ physical contact with anyone, really, but Peter looks so small and vulnerable next to him and he _did_ suffer a shit ton of injuries to protect Tony’s tech from a crazy man, so he can put his social boundaries to the side for a while to offer this _child_ comfort.

“Uhm, Mr. Stark?”

“This is a hug. Thank you, Peter.”

“Uh- No problem, I guess.”

 

“You did good, kid.” Peter looks up at Tony. He’s still unsure, still questioning whether he’s worthy of being forgiven for causing so much damage, but he wants to _hope_. He wants to hope that he deserves the forgiveness Tony is offering him.

 

Peter smiles hesitantly and relaxes into the hug.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if he has heard his thoughts, Mr. Stark slows down. Peter appreciates it, because not only does it mean he can walk more slowly, but it means he isn’t jostling himself as much. He could go to sleep on the floor right now. It looks cold, and he’s getting really warm. It dredges up uncomfortable memories of every time he nearly got skewered and toasted yesterday. He sucks in a sharp breath in a subdued attempt to mitigate his rising panic.  
> “Kid? You okay?”   
> “I’m- I’m good." He lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus fuck i'm like three quarters of a year late oh my god forgive me blease

The wind is harsh. As in, it’s bitingly cold, and the sun is starting to creep under the horizon, staining the skies with crimson streaks and amber splashes. It could have been pretty, would have been, under any other circumstances.

 

Peter is quiet against his side, but Tony can feel him shaking. It’s a very slight sensation. It’s worrying. Tony hasn’t spoken in a while, neither of them have. That’s fine. Peter’s seen shit that would scar a fully grown man. He’s been through a huge trauma and he needs some quiet time to cope with it. He  _ does _ wonder the root cause of the silence. Not knowing many specifics about what happened to this kid the previous night disturbs him at a core level. His whole thing is  _ knowing,  _ but he doesn’t know what’s messing up this kid so bad. It doesn’t sit well. He adjusts his arm over Peter’s shoulders and brings him in closer. He must be freezing. Tony tries to ignore how it pulls at his heart when Peter curls in on himself a little more; pulling his knees closer to his chest with his bloodied hand and resting his head against Tony’s chest. The kid’s vulnerable right now, he knows this. It’s his fault this fragility is even there in the first place. Partially.

 

Peter shifts against him, tense. How has he not noticed how small the spiderling is? Sure, he knew the kid was slightly skinnier than the average teen and maybe on the shorter side, but… being there now, with the kid next to him and hurting… he’s  _ tiny. _ It feels like something as slight as a breeze could take Peter away from him right now, and he doesn’t particularly like the thought of that happening. So if he shuffles a little closer to the kid, that’s nobody’s business but his.

 

Peter blinks slowly, in a daze of sorts. His head’s all fuzzy still, and he can’t help but still feel guilty about the crash. An entire  _ plane.  _ That’s millions of dollars down the drain because he couldn’t stop Toomes sooner. And if the stress isn’t bad enough, which it is, the  _ aches  _ all across him just about definitely are. God, he hurts. Everywhere. He brings up his hand from his sleeve and stares at it fixedly. The blood on the edge is drying, fading from bright red to a nastier sorta colour. He flexes his hand and wiggles his fingers, wincing at the cool, sticky coagulation covering his palm. The wound splits back open again with the movement to his annoyance, oozing red back onto copper-brown. He hisses in pain. It’s just one more thing to be overwhelmed by. Nothing new. Mr. Stark must notice him staring at the injury, focusing intently on it, because the arm around his shoulders shifts slightly and moves. He looks up.

“I never did get that fixed up, kiddo. C’mon, let’s go back down there.” He’s offered a hand, and he only just manages to avoid clasping it with the bloodied, injured one. Instead, Peter stumbles when he’s upright, and Mr. Stark only just catches him before he falls over.

 

He hurts everywhere. The injuries — even the ones he dressed earlier, maybe more so, the fabric is rubbing over them now — have reared their heads again, and it takes all the energy he has in him to not cry into Mr. Stark’s chest. He’s too tired to cry, though, too tired to do much more than blink and breathe. He’s tired and hurt and drained and it’s just… really difficult to keep up with the world right now. They start walking, but Peter- his legs aren’t listening to him, and he’s about to trip flat on his face. Each footsteps sends his ribs grinding against each other. It’s pretty… it’s pretty uncomfortable.

 

As if he has heard his thoughts, Mr. Stark slows down. Peter appreciates it, really, because not only does it mean he can walk more slowly — and save his energy, he’s  _ so tired _ —, but it means he isn’t jostling his injuries as much. Peter yawns and leans into the wall. He’s- he could go to sleep on the  _ floor _ right now. It looks cold, like it’ll be pleasant to lie on. And he’s getting really warm. It dredges up  _ uncomfortable  _ memories of every time he nearly got skewered and toasted yesterday. He sucks in a sharp breath in a subdued attempt to mitigate his rising panic.

“Kid? You okay?” Mr. Stark looks confused and worried all at once as he helps Peter stand again, hands unerringly gentle when they brush over injured regions. He tries to ignore how he can still hear the fires crackling in the distance. He’s not on the beach anymore, but his head sure is. He’s just… he’s just gotta convince himself. How hard can that be?

“I’m- I’m good, I’m just… I’m so  _ tired.” _ Mr. Stark gently pulls one of Peter’s arms so it’s over his shoulders and rests the other arm on his waist — he’s supporting him so he can walk, Peter belatedly realises —, and that’s how they walk the rest of the distance back to the medical wing. Peter’s feet drag with every step, and he can hardly keep his eyes open the whole time. His heartbeats are as sluggish as his steps.

“FRI, can you message Helen? Tell her where we are, too.” The voice reaches him through a vacuum, nearly incomprehensible and muffled.

 

He can see the fire behind his eyelids, roaring and growing closer. He can feel the dust and the dirt crawling into his lungs. He can taste blood and failure and he feels pain. His memory tastes like that earthen tang of dirt being shovelled over a casket on a rainy day. He doesn’t like it.

_ ‘No problem.’ _

They keep walking, slowly, but surely. He can’t move any faster, and his eyelids are pulling down. He’s so tired. And he can’t just let himself surrender to sleep right now, because Mr. Stark is half-carrying him already and- and he can’t be more of a burden than he already is. But how can he not be a burden when he can’t even get his eyes to focus? Everything in front of him is a hazy blur, but at least his eyes aren’t closed entirely. He’s deflating after every breath, and sometimes he isn’t even convinced he’ll be able to breathe in again. But he does. 

_ ‘She’s on her way up now.’ _ It’s a testament to his exhaustion that Peter doesn’t even jump at the sudden loudness of FRIDAY’s voice. There’s a fog over his mind now, wrapping him up tight and securely. He’s so tired...

“Thanks, sweetheart. You still with me, kid?”

“Mm.” The hum is all he can do now. 

 

Peter makes an attempt to stretch; to shake the fog out of himself, but all he manages to do is pull at the injuries. He winces, but can’t even bring himself to do much more than that. The exhaustion is leaden, oppressive, crushing; it’s replaced the blood in his veins to turn his limbs sluggish.

“C’mon, not much longer now, kiddo.” Mr. Stark’s voice is quiet, smooth. It settles comfortably in his ears, in that way most pleasant sounds do — it’s not harsh or loud, but it flows like water and could be like wind chimes for how it soothes his nerves. He’s safe — he’s in the same building as  _ Iron Man. _ He can just- he can just be Peter for a little while. He just has to find somewhere quiet and alone where he can cope- maybe cry or something. He doesn’t know. He’s not good with grief.

 

_ Not much longer _ is still too long. Turns out, when he focuses on it, he can hear  _ so much. _ Peter’s used to normal building clamouring; the chaos of people doing their thing. But… his head’s all jumbled and his thoughts are a cacophonic mess, he can’t pick any one thing apart from the other and he hurts,  _ so much. _ Everywhere. Suddenly, it’s all just a little bit too much, and he falters in his step, tripping over his own feet. The second he even stumbles, Mr. Stark catches him, but-

 

The arm catches him around the abdomen, pressuring directly on the puncture wound above his navel. Peter shutters, and barely manages to bite back a yell as his knees hit the ground. It’s like the pain makes his brain short out, because all semblance of conscious thought abandons him within that instant. He just clutches at whatever he can like it’s a lifeline. He can hear his breaths (almost embarrassingly ragged,  _ c’mon, Parker, get it together)  _ loudly in the quiet hallways, and feels the arm he’s gripping try to pull away lightly. Peter releases his grip swiftly, because he’s got  _ super strength  _ and he just lost control of it, didn’t he? Which means he’s probably hurt Mr. Stark, and-

“Calm down, kid.”

 

The voice doesn’t help him calm down — it’s just a reminder of what’s happened, how much has happened, and oh man, Toomes nearly  _ killed him _ literally  _ yesterday _ and he can’t even get a grip on his own abilities so what does that say about him? This doesn’t give off the ‘responsible and capable’ vibe he wants, it just makes him look like a kid, and letting Happy even bring him to the compound was a mistake in itself- he’s so  _ inexperienced _ and prone to breaking and right now, that’s what he’s doing. The shock is finally dragging itself away at the  _ worst time _ with the  _ worst audience  _ there to see.

 

He doesn’t want Mr. Stark to see  _ this.  _ He’s not capable when he’s not Spider-Man, he’s just a  _ kid _ who’s scared of dying and who is in a helluva lot of pain right now.

 

He lost the tenuous grip he always has to have on himself. And probably hurt Mr. Stark. He kinda just wants to shrivel up and cry. Not normal, but given the circumstances, understandable. Or at least he hopes it is, mostly because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if this mess is his new, permanent emotional state.

“Kid, c’mon. Let’s get you to medical, okay?” The voice is quieter, now, almost concerned, and Peter blinks his eyes open. To his dismay, the world is just blurred enough to let him know that  _ fuck, I was crying in front of  _ Tony Stark  _ after crashing his goddamn plane and yeah, he forgave me but also I crashed his plane and he really shouldn’t have. _ He’s embarrassed himself enough.

 

He’s also spent enough time wandering around after a bad patrol to learn how to conceal the fact that he’s injured.

 

So Peter stands, wordlessly, expression carefully held neutral, and lets Mr. Stark guide him to medical. Everything still hurts and more of him is bruised than isn’t, but… he’s not gonna embarrass himself any further than he already has. Panic attack, losing his grip on his strength, crying… this has been  _ great. _

 

He doesn’t see the concerned look he’s getting.

 

Now, usually, Peter would be metaphorically bricking it as he approaches medical, because he’s got that whole alter-ego, superhero secret identity thing going on, but he supposes if this is one of Mr. Stark’s medical staff, they’ll be nice about it and not expose him to the media.

 

Doesn’t mean he’s not twitchy and anxious when he enters the room.

 

_ (small windows can’t get out door blocked by Mr. Stark oh god) _

 

He sits down stiffly, and it’s not just because he’s anxious. The doctor looks nice, almost worried, even, and Peter finds himself relaxing fractionally. His spidey-sense isn’t going haywire like it usually does around doctors. He thinks it’s because of the sharp objects around hospitals, not just the standard anxiety. It’s quiet though, so that’s at least one less thing to be fretting about. She and Mr. Stark are having some weird, non-verbal communication over by the doors while Peter stares hopelessly out the too-small windows. 

 

Then Mr. Stark’s gone, and he’s alone with the doctor. She steps forward, expression open, body language reflecting that of a person approaching a wounded patient and not a hurt animal that might lash out. He allows some of the tension in his shoulders to uncoil.

“Hello, Mr. Parker. I’m Doctor Helen Cho, and Tony says you’re…” The words left unsaid are clear.

“Yeah.” He mumbles, almost into his chest  _ (like a child like a CHILD come on, Peter, you’re Spider-Man, grow up it’s just a doctor). _

“And you’re hurt.”

“It’s- it’s honestly not that bad- I mean, I’ve dealt with worse- this isn’t really that important, and I really, really don’t wanna…” He trails off. All his arguments against receiving treatment desert him at the worried look in her eyes; the way her shoulders hold the posture of someone who wants nothing more than to reach out and soothe her patient. She steps forward once more, right in front of him now. She feels a little imposing, towering over him as she is. The doctor’s-  _ Ms. Cho’s _ , he corrects himself, gaze is both piercing and analysing and suddenly, the spidey-sense screaming at the back of his skull. He shrinks back slightly.

“Let’s just start with your hand for now. Can I have a look?” Her voice has gone soft again. Maybe she noticed his very obvious panic. Peter reluctantly holds his sliced open hand out. He doesn’t voice his discomfort (actually, it’s pain, but that’s not important) when she pulls his fingers away from his palm to expose the injury to sight. 

“Oh… you’re  _ already _ healing?” She sounds surprised, even when she starts swiping the very cleansing, horrifically  _ horrible  _ smelling antiseptic wipes across the injury. Peter’s certain it’s hurting his nose more than it is his hand. But he keeps quiet about how much it hurts to be awake right now. Even when he has to slip off the dozens of layers and the bandages protecting the  _ holy shit  _ ow _ how did I forget how goddamn painful those are  _ injuries on his chest, he stays quiet because really, it’s better than talking and embarrassing himself further. Ms. Cho looks downright murderous, though. Like, mad enough to hunt down Toomes just to slap him to death. It’s enough to tempt Peter into looking down at the puncture wounds. Turns out, now he’s had time to start recovering, all those bruises he should have had after one, having a building dropped on him and two, getting chucked off a moving plane… well, it’s no exaggeration to say his entire torso (and arms. And  _ everywhere) _ is painted black and blue with littered scratches across his body. There’s very little healthy-looking skin exposed. Peter winces. That’s not even getting started on the punctures,  _ they _ still make him feel woozy just looking at them. Ms. Cho doesn’t look any less likely to murder Toomes. If anything, she looks  _ more _ motivated to kill him. 

 

He’s a  _ little _ more okay with her now.

 

He’s not in any less pain than before, but they’re clean so they shouldn’t get infected, which is good. He doesn’t tell Ms. Cho about the fiery pain still ripping through him — there’s little do be done about it. There’s really not any painkillers strong enough to get past his metabolism for more than a few seconds, so he just has to stick it out. Which is fine. He’s had full-on stab wounds to contend with before, so by all means, this is much better. She’s helped him out enough already; he’d hate to take up more time than he already has. Peter makes sure to thank her before he shuffles awkwardly out of the room, thankfully back in his very nice very  _ warm _ sweater. Everything still hurts, yeah, but he’s less likely to get an infection in his organs and die any time soon (and he really,  _ really _ doesn’t want to die), so there’s another improvement in his otherwise bleak circumstances. Peter pointedly avoids Mr. Stark’s stare as he collapses into one of the plush chairs in the waiting room. There’s a few seconds of silence where Mr. Stark leans forward, clearly wanting to ask questions, and those seconds are cut off when Ms. Cho calls in Mr. Stark quietly.

 

It’s only after they’ve both disappeared that the reason as to  _ why _ flits into his head.

 

She’s gonna tell him about his injuries. Mr. Stark’s gonna know just how bad he is, and he won’t be able to play him off about it anymore. Peter tugs his sweater over his hands and tugs at the fabric gently, rubbing his thumb over the pinched fabric. If Mr. Stark knows- if Ms. Cho tells him about the injuries, which she will, ‘cause that’s her  _ job _ and that’s what she gets paid to do no matter what  _ kid  _ says otherwise…  _ when _ Ms. Cho tells Mr. Stark about the injuries, he’s gonna know just how hurt he is and then he’s gonna know just how bad he messed up all of yesterday. His gut twists. Mr. Stark can’t take the suit away, because he’s already done that, but there’s a nagging fear that he’ll tell May lurking in the back of his head. Well, Peter wouldn’t really blame him — if some kid came along and screwed up something  _ that big, _ he’d do something about it as well.

 

But still. He’s already made so, so many bad impressions on Mr. Stark.

 

_ I’m not good enough. _

 

No, he’s not. He’s messed up a lot and done very little good to combat that fact.

 

To distract himself, Peter sends a quick message May telling her he’s staying the night at the compound, ignoring the cuts and bruises along his arms as he types, saying something along the lines of  _ no, _ he doesn’t need her to bring his stuff up,  _ yes _ he’s going to eat,  _ no _ she doesn’t need to come up and fight Tony and he  _ isn’t _ being forced to stay up there. He fiddles with the web shooters, still firmly attached to his wrists, before taking them off and shoving them into his hoodie’s pockets. That doesn’t relieve his restlessness, either. 

 

The silence is just as bad as the chaos, he learns. Peter nestles into his sweater, eyelids dragging closed. 

 

* * *

 

When the kid awkwardly shuffles out of the hospital room and he’s called in, Tony can’t help but feel anxious about it. Not slightly anxious, not kind of, he  _ is  _ nervous because Peter’s injuries? He knows they’re severe. They’re bad because he took on a madman in little more than a glorified hoodie and some sweatpants by himself where he should have had support. And he’s suffering in the aftermath. It’s easy to know that Peter is hardly even  _ aware _ of where he is, let alone anything else. Knowing that the spiderling had been trying to play off his injuries, make Tony believe they aren’t as bad as they really are… that  _ hurt.  _ He deserves it after taking the suit, but… 

 

The distrust isn’t even the worst of it. Seeing the kid _react_ after he tripped over takes that honour. He’d noticed as soon as the dragging footsteps besides him scuffled and Peter was lurching forward, and moved on reflex to catch him. He wasn’t paying enough attention to realise until a split second _before_ the kid met his arms that his arm would be pressing into a freakin’ stab wound. He didn’t realise he was _hurting_ Peter until the kid’s breaths turned ragged and he let out the little, pained yelp that Tony knows damn well is going to haunt him for a while.

 

He made Peter cry. Tony can’t blame him,  _ wouldn’t  _ blame him, not with injuries like that; he most likely would too. Peter cried. Not the tears wrought from the grips of a panic attack like earlier, but full-blown tears from  _ unbearable  _ pain. Pain so severe there was no other way to cope with it.

 

Those injuries- that’s what Tony wanted to avoid by taking away the suit. The ferry had been a close call, too close, and he shudders to think about how it could have been worse. Taking the suit away was meant to  _ prevent _ the kid from getting hurt further. He wasn’t going to keep it forever, not like he said he would, but the words just  _ came out  _ in his anger and frustration and he couldn’t  _ take them back _ afterwards, could he? It would have been completely irresponsible. But now, looking at Helen’s grim face and the small pile of blood-soaked bandages lying just on the edge of the hospital bed, he knows it was more irresponsible of him to have taken it in the first place. Just look at where it’s landed the kid — exhausted, injured,  _ scared.  _ He recognises the kid’s blank, far-off expression all too easily. He’s seen it on himself on the bad days. He recognises too well the forced, blank expression Peter had shoved up after falling, like he was trying to hide his tears from himself, too. How many times has he had to wear that particular expression? The familiarity and ease to which the kid slipped into it suggests many, many times, and Tony finds some part deep in his core twitches in pain at the thought. Peter isn’t meant to be like him, he’s meant to be  _ better. _ He  _ is _ better. And he’s  _ hurt.  _

 

He swallows his unsettled emotions and meets Helen’s eyes. It’s bizarre — the first two feelings he can pick up on are sorrow and anger. Anger at the Vulture, more than likely, and Tony can’t blame her — he’d like to give that bastard a piece of his mind himself, too, but the sorrow… more than likely, it’s because Peter’s condition was probably worse than FRIDAY’s brief description of the injuries from earlier. Helen’s seen them, had to treat them. 

“It was bad.”

 

He’d guessed as such, but it doesn’t do his heart any favours to hear it out loud. 

“How bad are we talking?”

 

Helen looks at him, face hesitant. Tony spares a look at the bloody bandages. She takes a deep breath. 

“Six puncture wounds, in a kind of ‘Y’ formation across his chest and back. Deep, but not deep enough to nick any organs, so that’s a bonus. They’ve been cleaned and wrapped again.” Tony nods despite how he’s really wishing he could  _ ‘peacefully talk’ _ to the Vulture guy right now. His stomach gives a small flip in protest to the details, because really, if they had  _ nicked an organ  _ like Helen said, the kid more than likely would have died. He was  _ that _ close to getting Peter killed, and he didn’t even know. 

 

Taking away the suit was a petty idea. Especially now, when it’s lead to  _ this. _ He looks down, then at the hospital bed, then back up to Helen again. He points at the pile of cloth on the bed. 

“They bled  _ that much?”  _ He really, really hopes not.

“What-? Oh, no. He’d tried to wrap them himself. It’s not a  _ bad _ job, all things considered, but they needed changing.” Tony takes a closer look at the bandages, guilt churning in his gut. The outsides of the bloody patches are the consistently off-brown colour of dried blood. Peter dressed those wounds himself. Alone. Straight after the incident, more than likely, and guessing from the lack of any other discolouration from pus marring the otherwise pristine white cloth, he had cleaned the injuries out too.

 

Jesus  _ Christ. _

 

“Anything else?” He almost doesn’t want to ask. He’s seen that the injuries Peter’s racked up are severe already, and they were just from a fleeting body scan. Helen’s seen the brunt of it. Tony isn’t sure he’ll survive the guilt when he knows.

 

But he isn’t just gonna  _ ignore it.  _ It’s his fault Peter’s hurt so bad anyways.

 

“Severe bruising all over, focused pretty heavily around the arms and the torso. Cracked ribs, but I suspect they had been broken and are just healing quickly.” Tony feels his eyes flutter shut. Jesus. Those- those injuries would have floored or straight up killed anyone else, and here’s Peter, a fifteen year old  _ kid,  _ trying to wave them off like they’re nothing and totally not capable of killing him. And it doesn’t stop there, either.

“His pupils were a little uneven, so a concussion, most likely brought around by the same blunt force trauma that either cracked or exacerbated the injuries to his ribs.” Yeah, no, right now, Tony would  _ really _ like to punch Toomes. With the Iron Man suit on for good measures. Because that bastard hurt  _ his kid  _ that badly, and from what Tony’s read up, he has a family himself. He should know the damage hurting a kid does. If he had some semblance of a heart left in him, he wouldn’t have hurt Peter like this.

“And guessing from the shaking, that’s some muscular strain. FRIDAY said there might be some tearing to his rotator cuff. Try to keep him off lifting or any activities that require strain on the arms for a while.” It isn’t like he’s gonna let the kid do anything until he’s healed, but all the same.

“Jesus Christ. And the kid’s just been  _ walking around _ with all that?”

“It’s baffling me too, Tony.” He looks at her. She really does look genuinely surprised and worried that Peter’s even coherent right now, and Tony understands the feeling. It’s both impressive and incredibly upsetting.

_ “Please _ tell me that’s it.”

“In terms of injuries, yes. But he also seems to be  _ slightly _ malnourished, and you should really keep an eye on how this whole incident affects him in the future. Try to get him to talk about it.” Right. Right. Malnourished. He- that’s something he can fix. He just needs to make sure the kid eats enough good food. Then the second part of what Helen said grabs his attention, and Tony feels himself go cold. 

“You’re saying-”

“I’m saying this  _ thing  _ is something that  _ will _ very easily fester into PTSD if you don’t keep an eye on it. He was hurt, badly, and someone was actively trying to  _ end his life. _ He’s fifteen. That type of event generally leaves a scar.”

 

He feels himself deflate, eyes fluttering closed yet again. PTSD. The major thing he wanted to avoid bringing down on anyone else. And now he’s got a fifteen year old kid who might just end up as broken as he is.

 

He can’t let that happen. 

 

Tony wrings his hands out, stretches, and meets Helen’s eyes again.

“Thank you.”

“It’s my job, Tony. Now go and keep an eye on your kid.”

 

_ I will. _

 

When he exits the room, the bright white lights of the lobby blind him. He hadn’t even noticed just how dimmed the lights had been in the treatment room, more than likely for Peter’s overstretched senses. 

 

_ Peter. _

 

His eyes rest upon Peter quickly, and his heart falls. He’s nestled up into his jumper, eyes closed, and the tightness of his expression makes it clear that he’s not having nice thoughts. Or memories.

 

Peter blinks his eyes open when his name is called. He hadn’t even realised they’d closed. Mr. Stark looks at him, gaze unreadable, and he feels the telltale prickling of anxiety rising in his veins again. But, to his surprise, when Mr. Stark opens his mouth to talk, it isn’t a beration or a pointed question designed to pry information from him, but simply:

“You wanna go get some food?”

Peter’s about to turn it down, about to ask where his room is so he can go cry out the coiled up, tense sensation in his chest, but his stomach growls so loudly Mr. Stark probably heard and he’s hit by a wave of dizziness so intense it feels like the world is tilting around him, even though he’s sat down.

“Yeah, let’s go get food. C’mon, kiddo, we’re ordering a pizza.” Mr. Stark turns toward the doorway, so, still dizzy, Peter drags himself upright and hastily stumbles towards the man. He can’t help it. He’s beyond tired now, beyond exhausted, even, now safely within the realms of  _ dead on his feet.  _ Peter can tell Mr. Stark wants to try and support him so he doesn’t trip over again, but with the residual sting in his chest from the antiseptic, he’s just a little more alert than before. He doesn’t need help  _ walking. _

 

Or at least, that’s what he tries to tell himself whenever the vertigo hits again and he loses another bit of his grip on reality. His senses are starting to dim out in the same way they do when he hasn’t slept well in a few weeks. He needs to crash out somewhere, soon, because it’s starting to catch up to him anyways and he’d really rather not pass out in front of Mr. Stark when he’s embarrassed himself enough already.

 

When they get to the common room, Peter feels the niggling sensation in the back of his skull point his gaze up, towards the floor-to-ceiling windows, and more specifically, the blood-  _ his _ blood, dried, having trailed down the panes. He winces. It was that bad…?

“Sit down before you fall down, kid.”

He jolts. Right. He has to manoeuvre his sore, uncooperative body into a sitting position slowly and tenderly, because he still aches  _ everywhere.  _ But he can’t stop looking at the blood. Asides from the urge to clean it up before it burdens someone else, Peter can’t help but be morbidly curious about it. He doesn’t know why, it just seems  _ odd.  _

“Kid?”

“I-oh. Sorry, Mr. Stark. Zoned out…” 

“Stop apologising. What do you wanna watch?” Mr. Stark’s looking at him with a gaze too critical to be normal, probably looking for his injuries. Peter only just tamps down the urge to squirm under the attention. 

“Oh, I- um- uh… you can- you can pick. I don’t mind.”

“Alright. Hope you like junk TV.” His spidey-sense goes off as Mr. Stark speaks, and he only just manages to catch the blanket that’s thrown at him on reflex. His sleeve rolls down, exposing his blue-black forearm to sight. 

 

He supposes his other arm will look like that, having taken the immediate brunt of getting thrown off a plane. 

 

By the time he tugs his sleeve back down, he’s already seen Mr. Stark’s expression pinch. Great. Peter feels his heart rate creeping up under the scrutiny, forcing a cold sweat down his spine. 

 

He shouldn’t  _ be  _ here. He screwed everything up, there’s literally no reason for him to be here after everything he’s ruined for Mr. Stark. A whole  _ plane.  _ He put the entire thing into a beach literally  _ yesterday  _ and now he’s chilling out at the guy’s house, half-hidden under a blanket, with the worst pain of his life buried under a grimace and waiting for pizzas. Oh, god, he needs to leave, like, right now, shouldn’t have let Happy drag him up here,  _ goddamnit- _

 

“Kid? You… alright? Over there?” Peter snaps his attention away from the window (away from freedom) harshly, and meets Mr. Stark’s eyes with a definitely wobbly smile and terror in his eyes. 

“I’m fine!” He says, too quickly, voice pitched like it’s a question. He watches, grin-grimace still firmly stuck in place, as an eyebrow slowly ticks up on Mr. Stark’s face.  

 

Oh, god, this is literally the worst few seconds of his life. Undo, undo, undo-

 

_ (Run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run-) _

 

_ oh my god, spidey-sense,  _ please _ shut up.  _

 

“You sure?”

His smile falters, falls, and he’s left feeling uncomfortably bare without the protection of a mask. Peter shakes his head, body suddenly too cold, and tucks himself away into his blanket, staring out the window again. It’s nice to know he can get out if needs be. Concrete is much harder to shatter than glass, and Peter’s not sure his limbs are up to the task of breaking anything more than glass right now. Not even adrenaline will wake him once he’s asleep, he just  _ knows  _ it. It’s not the warehouse. This isn’t Toomes. Nobody is out for his blood, nobody wants him to die, he’s  _ safe, _ inside a building with Iron Man, his injuries have been treated, there’s nothing for him to be scared of because Toomes happened  _ yesterday,  _ in the past, and he can leave that behind himself now because it is in the  _ past,  _ not the present, and it is  _ not _ happening so  _ why can’t he breathe- _

 

“Peter, I need you to open your eyes and copy my breathing, okay?” The voice is soft, gentle. Muffled. Distorted.

 

His eyes  _ are  _ open. It’s dark, there’s dirt, there’s concrete blanketing his body and his lungs are filling with dust, he can’t see anymore, he can feel the  _ pain  _ of concrete on his spine and talons in his chest,  _ please let me go I don’t wanna die! _

 

“In…” A small intake of air into compromised lungs.

 

Fires crackling. Air rushing past his ears, standing up woozily, feeling bones crunching and muscles scream.

 

“Out.” So controlled. He can’t copy that.

 

He can’t breathe. He  _ can’t _ breathe.  _ He can’t.  _

 

“In…”

 

Impact upon impact. Electricity making his limbs spasm. The tearing in his body while holding the ferry together. Water in his lungs, in his eyes, in his mouth. Drowning. Suffocating.

 

“Out.”

 

Crying for help feebly. Rasping. Melodic dripping water in the distance. Dust settling in a fine powder. The silence. The calm. 

 

“In…”

 

_ I was going to die down there.  _

 

“Out.”

 

_ I nearly died.  _

 

“In…”

 

_ Toomes nearly killed me.  _

 

“Out.”

 

_ I’m not ready.  _

 

“In…”

 

_ I’m Spider-Man with or without the suit.  _

 

“Out.”

 

_ I’m scared. _

 

“In…”

 

_ I let everyone down.  _

 

“Out.”

 

_ I screwed everything up. _

 

“In…”

 

_ I don’t wanna die.  _

“Out.”

 

_ I’m… _

 

“I’m fine.”

 

_ …terrified.  _

 

He doesn’t dare open his eyes. He doesn’t want the pity. He’s too close to the edge of a very deep, very scary pit of repressed emotions and traumas and no, he doesn’t want to really get any closer to it by opening his eyes. He clenches and squeezes at the bunched up blanket in his fists, using the dull ache to ground himself. Peter stays silent. He hears Mr. Stark walk a few meters away if the fading footsteps are anything to go by, and an unwanted surge of panic shoots up in his chest. He doesn’t want to be  _ alone _ right now. There’s mumbled chatter, what sounds like ‘thanks’, and after the footsteps disappear, he hears something being set down on the floor; Mr. Stark sitting back down on the couch.

“Pizza’s here, kid.” The tone is gentle; too gentle, like Mr. Stark is trying to avoid breaking him. 

 

He doesn’t like it. 

 

He’s not some- some fragile  _ kid.  _

 

Peter stands quickly, eyes snapping open (the sudden light hurts, but it’s alright, he’s  _ clearly _ able to take worse), and snags a slice of pizza with the same speed. Sitting on the floor isn’t exactly comfortable, and his chest still hurts from both being crushed by a building, stabbed and hyperventilating, but hey, it’s pizza, so that’s okay.

 

And it’s damn nice pizza. The cheese melts on his tongue, the tomato sauce is rich, and he isn’t sure he’s ever  _ seen  _ so much food on top of a pizza but hey, he’s not paying, so-

 

The first slice disappears quickly. He can’t really learn forward, or stretch, or move more than a few inches to grab a new slice before his entire body says  _ ‘then perish’  _ in unison, but he does it anyways because  _ pizza.  _ The TV in the background keeps his hearing idle while he eats, and it’s almost relaxing for him. Peter, for the first time in a few days, feels all the tension drain out of him. It’s bewildering to think that some people get to feel this okay all the time.  _ How? _

 

Slice number three. Mr. Stark is on number two. There’s three left. This is more food than Peter usually eats anyways, so he’ll stop soon so he doesn’t seem more  _ off  _ than normal. Usually he’d jump at the mentioning of food, especially when it’s free, because he  _ knows _ he isn’t eating enough, but this is food being paid for by the man whose plane he  _ crashed into a beach  _ so it seems wrong. Like he’s taking advantage of Mr. Stark’s money while only causing problems for him. It really plays to the guilt complex; he feels crappy for eating, now.

 

He’s dragged back to reality by quiet crackling, a pop, a bang. They’re nearly inaudible, even to him, but they’re  _ there  _ and lying just out of the comfortable zone his senses can reach. Peter clenches his fist hard enough that he loses feeling, carving thin crescent grooves into his palm, and tries to make sure his  _ very _ obviously shuddering breaths aren’t  _ too _ obvious at the onslaught of flashes from the beach, from Toomes. 

 

It stops. 

“Sorry, kid, that channel was getting boring.”

 

_ It was… the TV? _

 

And Mr. Stark turned it off.  

 

Peter can feel the tips of his ears burning as he finishes off slice number three and makes a lazy grasp for four. Mr. Stark is looking at him,  _ watching him,  _ and at this point he’s actually more unnerved than he is embarrassed. He puts the slice down. 

 

Oh. 

 

_ Oh.  _

 

His entire forearm — he’d hitched the baggy sleeve up so it didn’t fall into the food, totally unconsciously,  _ fuck _ — is exposed in its full glory, black and blue painted skin standing out clearly from everything else. Purple patches of accumulated blood and reddish grazes splash the gory tapestry with a touch more colour. 

_ “Peter.” _

 

It’s whispered so quietly Peter nearly misses it, enhanced hearing and all, but he still  _ hears  _ the horror and some other, unidentifiable emotion in the tone. Abruptly, Peter tugs his sleeve back down and closes the pizza box, and tucks himself back into the corner of his couch. It’s too sudden, and guessing by the fact he can nearly hear Mr. Stark thinking, he’s made it too obvious that he’s more than a little screwed up by this whole thing. He resolutely ignores the concern on Mr. Stark’s face, instead opting to focus on the — nature documentary? — TV screen. It’s calm. Peter forces his mind away from the emptiness and takes in everything around him. He needs a distraction. Now more than ever. 

 

_ Footsteps. People talking a few floors down. Doors opening, closing. The fabric on his fingers. The taste of cheese on his tongue. The enticing scent of the pizza.  _

 

It’s just a distraction. 

 

His head gives a small throb. 

 

_ The movement on the TV, fluttering movements. An orange butterfly taking flight. The predatory growl of a tiger. Or maybe a lion…? The groaning of a branch snapping under too much weight. Crackling twigs. Loud rumbling, screeching. An impact jolting through him.  _

 

No. No no no. Stop. Stop that. 

 

He wriggles under the blanket, core screeching in protest as he lies down on the couch, knees slowly coming up to his chest. Mr. Stark is probably looking at him, but Peter doesn’t want to confirm that so he just focuses on the TV again instead. 

 

It takes a few minutes for Peter to figure out that somewhere along the line, his eyes closed, and they’re too heavy to lift now. He’s not quite asleep, though — he can feel his every sense on alert still, finely attuned for any disturbances nearby. This place is probably better for him to sleep than a room anyway. Too much concrete surrounding him in a normal room; he’s got windows if he needs to retreat. At least he can escape here. 

 

_ I’m safe, _ he tries to tell himself.  _ I’m safe. It’s Mr. Stark’s building. If  _ anywhere _ is safe, it’s here.  _

  
  


He doesn’t  _ feel  _ safe. 

 

* * *

 

He waits half an hour after the kid worms himself under the blanket before moving, just to make sure he doesn’t wake up abruptly. Peter’s so  _ small.  _ Tony can’t tell if the curling up is for warmth or for security, but given the situation, it’s probably the latter and it breaks his heart. Absently, he sweeps the pizza box up into his arms and rests it on a kitchen counter. He needs to get out of this place, if only for a while. He just… he needs to find somewhere to center his thoughts again. He, Tony Stark, is utterly confused and perplexed by his urge to protect and care for this  _ very _ beaten-up, very  _ damaged  _ child. 

 

And  _ fuck-  _ he knew it was bad, FRIDAY said it was bad, Helen said it was bad, but that didn’t prepare him to see the extent of the bruising alone. Tony didn’t know a single limb could be bruised so many colours. But Peter… the kid hasn’t voiced a single complaint since getting treated. Sure, he freaked out and was definitely slipping into a panic attack earlier before Tony decided to intervene — the kid was trying to distract himself, that much is obvious, and it didn’t really work out well. But other than that… no complaints about the injuries, which have to hurt a  _ lot,  _ no complaints at all. Hell, the kid’s hardly spoken a word since the roof. Tony sincerely hopes he’s not beating himself up still. 

 

“FRIDAY, lock down the common room? Only let me and the kid in and out.” He whispers. He’s not sure if Peter is still capable of hearing him from a reasonable distance away, but super-people have super-senses and he’s not willing to bet on this.

_ ‘Sure thing, Boss. You want me to alert you if anything happens?’ _

“Sure.” Helen  _ did _ say he should keep an extra wary eye out for signs that the trauma is rearing its head. That he will. But before he can start taking care of the kid like he should have been  _ before _ the Vulture slammed him off a plane, he needs to make sure he’s in the right headspace. It probably isn’t a good idea for him to take care of an anxious, traumatised child when he’s anxious and traumatised himself.

 

Besides, the common room is secure. If Peter’s safe anywhere, it’s there, and the kid’s gone ahead and conked out for the night, so he might as well go off and do something productive. He casts a quick look back, just to make sure the kid’s not come back to already. He knows anxiety like an old frenemy, it wouldn’t surprise him if the kid’s already at the hypervigilance stage, with his senses and all.

 

Nope.

 

A mussed tuft of brown curls sticks out the top of the blanket, curled around the kid’s too-small body. He looks relaxed, even if Tony can’t see his face. That’s good.

 

Tony nods to himself, and strolls down to his labs. 

 

His gait is more light-hearted than he is, for sure. He can’t stop thinking about the kid against his side on the roof, diminutive and trembling lightly, how  _ small _ he is… 

 

He knows he’s fucked up with Peter, more than just a little bit. And as much as he hates to admit it, the behaviours the spiderling has been exhibiting match closely to the typical ones of PTSD. It makes him sick just to think about it.  _ He _ took that suit away, the one that could have stopped him from getting as beat up as he did, and now his mentee has PTSD, even if he hasn’t noticed it yet.

 

He just needs to think. He needs to make sure he’s gonna be okay to deal with Peter. He can’t hurt the kid more than he already has. God knows it’s gonna be hard enough as is. The kid’s fragile, but Tony- he’s not the kind of guy who’s used to stepping on eggshells. He’s used to strutting; to verbally sparring with the likes of Rhodey and Happy and Pepper and JARVIS and FRIDAY. Peter’s not the verbal sparring type. The kid’s… sensitive. More than most. Very touchy on certain topics, but has no bounds on others. Tony gets the feeling Peter needs soft encouragement and reassurances, especially after an event like this, but- really, he’s nowhere near qualified to guide Peter along. He cares too much to just pull away, though. Tony thinks about it on the lift journey down to the lab, his stomach rising as he descends. He’s not sure if it’s his anxiety or the too-fast lift that’s instilled this dizziness into him. 

“Hey, Tony.”

 

To his surprise — he whirls around, grabbing a socket wrench from a desk and brandishing it threateningly —, Pepper is already there, waiting for him. Which is  _ odd.  _ She offers a smile as her eyes flick to the wrench and back, but doesn’t ask anything as he plops down into his chair and absently fiddles with whatever tech is on his table, setting the wrench down beside him. His mind isn’t really here in the labs. His mind is upstairs in the common room with the delicate shards of a teenager who’s seen things nobody should have to see. Sue him. 

“Is he alright…?” Pepper looks genuinely worried. Tony blinks, then realises, yeah,  _ shit,  _ Pepper saw the very despondent, very withdrawn version of Peter Parker earlier on and she’s probably worried about the fact that Tony Stark, not exactly famous for being  _ sensitive, _ thought it would be best to not push things too hard for once. She’d had to cancel the interview they were planning for a damn good reason. As far as he’s concerned, Peter’s more than earned his place among the Avengers. He just needs to make sure the kid’s stable and healthy first, hopefully even happy before dropping  _ that  _ bomb on him. That’s gotta be a priority, if anyone knows what an unhealthy mental state is, it’s Tony, and really, he doesn’t wish that upon anyone, let alone a kid as nice as Peter.

“Not really. But he’ll recover.” Or at least, Tony hopes the kid does. He really, really,  _ really  _ does. Peter… he’s too nice a kid to let him get broken like that. 

 

Pepper’s observing him with a critical eye. The light of the labs gleams off her hair, dyeing it fire-orange. She’s perfect as always, pristine and put together in ways he never can be, blood-red lipstick shocking her freckled, porcelain face, blue eyes reminiscent of warm light reflecting on a crystal-clear stream- she’s a sunset, something he can admire and fall for over and over again.

 

God, he  _ loves _ her.

 

“You care about him.” It’s an innocent sentence, but he nearly recoils. Yes. He does. He does care. He’s tried not to care, it never works, it just breaks the people who he wants to protect. Tony twiddles with the tools on his desk, tapping them twitchily. He just makes an noncommittal noise in response, focusing on his work table and shuffling things around so he’s got some space to work. Pepper’s looking at him with a knowing expression, one he refuses to acknowledge.

 

Moving some papers uncovers a prototype web shooter he’d been working on for Peter. It would have had a few more web combinations, a little harder to break if anyone went for his wrists, but… they’d fallen out of his mind over the past few days, and now… the frame of the web shooters stare him in the face. 

“Six puncture wounds. Heavy bruising across his entire body. Concussion. Cracked ribs. And that’s just the most pressing ones; there’s  _ plenty _ more. Pepper, there’s a kid upstairs who’s been  _ beaten _ to high hell and it’s my-”

“If you  _ dare _ finish that sentence with ‘fault’, I’m gonna lock you out of this lab and drag you up there by the ear to sit down with him and talk about your feelings.”

 

Tony blanches.

“That’s what I thought. This is on Toomes for attacking the plane and selling the weapons and hurting that kid. Not you.” The words make sense in his head but his heart still twists to think about that blue-blackened limb, the blatant fear in Peter’s eyes… he should have been there. No child should ever be left in a situation like that.

 

He gently picks up the framework of the web shooter; peers inside it. There’s a lot of work to still be done, a lot of things that could have been and could be done better, but it is what it is, and Tony’s just gonna have to work to fix it; to make it better. That’s fine by him. Pepper pulls up a chair and settles next to him, her head on his shoulder as he works on files and the web shooters, and it keeps his mind off the tremendous failure of Peter on his behalf. 

 

For about half an hour. Then a mini pop-up notification bursts to life on the corner of his holotable and he clicks it, frowning. Most things are on mute, so for there to be a notification… it’s gotta be something important.

 

He’s too right about that.

 

_ FRIDAY: Following protocol [SPIDERLING HEALTH PROTOCOL (medical file requires update)]. Common room. Mr. Parker’s heart rate is accelerated. Subject appears to be in distress. _

 

He must have tensed, because Pepper’s weight leaves his shoulders, and it appears she’s reading the message, too. 

“‘Distress’…? A nightmare. That poor kid. Tony. Go on.”

 

Funny, that. He can’t move fast enough to get there. He’s jogging up through the corridors, heart flying in his chest, disproportionately quickly because he’s not really exercising  _ that  _ hard, thoughts pounding just as fast. What if Peter’s freaked out again and tried to run away? He doesn’t know this place, he’s not in the suit- his identity could be at risk if he’s run off. Tony knows first hand how disorienting nightmares can be, especially of the- of the  _ PTSD _ variety, if Peter’s had one of those, which he likely has, Tony needs to try to comfort him quickly. It hurts a little in his chest to consider the fact that Peter is so skittish that running off to feel ‘safe’ might just be something he has done because he’s scared, he’s hurting, he’s traumatised and… he’s got nothing to rely on other than instinct. Tony rounds the corner quickly, breaths merely sharp huffs, and his eyes snap to the couch where Peter had been ‘peacefully sleeping’ on. The kid’s still there, facing towards the door, expression pinched with one arm’s fingers brushing against the carpet, sporadically twitching in a manner so abrupt it’s clear he’s caught up in the vice-grip of his own mind.

 

Tony steps forward, silence swallowing each footfall, until he’s just in front of the couch. He crouches down, and rests his arm gently on Peter’s shoulder. There’s no outward reaction to the contact, so against his gut, Tony gives the kid a little shake. This time, Peter does come awake, but it’s clear from the way his eyes flit around the room that he isn’t quite ‘there’ yet. They don’t focus on anything, pupils slightly too dilated to be normal. He doesn’t speak or make any noise at all, but it’s clear from the visible gulp that he feels threatened by whatever he’s seeing. It’s probably Toomes. 

“Hey. Hey, kid. Come on, it’s up time. Sun’s still shining.” Well, that’s not true. It’s night time. But Peter doesn’t need to know that, he just needs to wake up. That’s all he needs. The kid tenses under him, or at least, as much as he can, and his eyes screw shut even tighter.

 

Tony scoops him up into a hug, carefully so he doesn’t twist the kid’s torso or press any injuries too hard.

“Come on, kid. Peter. Wake up.” He feels a small jolt, and Peter’s unconscious limbs flare to life, wrapping around him on instinct alone, seemingly.

“M’s’r St’rk…?” It’s croaky and thick, and it’s clear Peter’s keeping back tears. Tony feels himself deflate slightly. The kid’s awake, still shaking, exhausted, traumatised, heavily injured, and in his arms. Crying, apparently. It makes his heart wrench. He doesn’t know what to do now, he’s… not very good in these types of situations. Or many situations involving people and emotions in the same sentence. He can feel the odd twitch run through the kid, a clenching of muscles and a gasp, and then he’s trying to pull away. Tony lets him; watches him wrap himself up in his blankets and obscure half of his face in them. All that’s left to see are the kid’s eyes, half of his nose, and the head of curls that had been sticking out of the top of the blankets earlier. He can see Peter shifting under the blankets, wrapping his arms around his midsection, his wounds, and his heart aches to see the corner of a wrist, now with web shooters attached. He hadn’t even realised the kid had them on his person in the first place. It leads him to question just how deep rooted the kid’s fear goes. Probably very, very deep. He’s just a kid. 

 

He can feel his brain starting to churn out more and more nonsensical thoughts as a sort of panic response. He’s got nothing to help Peter with; there’s nothing he can really do. 

 

Actually, that might be wrong. The kid doesn’t feel safe  _ here.  _ He’s- he can show Peter to the room he’d been designing before Toomes, help settle him in somewhere he might feel a little bit safer. It should be an improvement to the common room — he’d soundproofed the walls after learning, on the way to Germany, that the kid was prone to becoming overwhelmed because of his senses. Hopefully the complete quiet and distance from the rest of the building will do the kid some good.

 

He just needs to get Peter there first. Which, given his catatonic state, looks like it’ll be easier said than done. It’s still worth a try — if the worst comes to pass, he’ll carry Peter to his room if he needs to. He isn’t leaving this kid here to be scared and alone. Not if he can help it. 

“Peter? Kiddo? You awake?” He hears a quiet, distressed noise — almost a whimper but not quite, more of a panicked gasp — come from deep in the kid’s chest. He’s awake, seemingly; those eyes of his are too wide and alert but hazy with bone-deep exhaustion. Tony can almost instantly tell that the kid’s still teetering on the knife’s edge of complete exhaustion — he’s burned up all his energy from the inside out. But, even though he’s wobbling where he stands and he’s trembling like a leaf in the wind, Peter manages to stumble up onto his feet where Tony has to catch him, just to stop him from eating the carpet.

 

His expression remains steady against his turmoil. Why is it that, just when he thinks Peter’s state is bad enough, that is gets that little bit worse? First it was finding out the kid fought the Vulture in the first place, then it was  _ learning _ he was injured, then the freak out, then learning the  _ severity _ of the injuries, then another  _ minor _ freak out, then Helen  _ treating  _ the injuries, then  _ another  _ freak out, then the kid falling asleep and freaking out  _ in his sleep,  _ and now they’re here; Tony holding a half-conscious but incredibly wary child in his arms.

 

He has to actively war with the urge to just hug the damn kid, give him something to cling on to, some kind of stability, but… he doesn’t want to spook Peter. He’s not in the suit; if Peter’s subconscious decides he is a threat, he’s fucked. But, either by the graces of some miracle or just the boy’s sheer exhaustion, he doesn’t move to defend himself from his terrors. Instead, his legs give out and Tony rushes to secure his grip on Peter before those knobbly knees can slam into the ground. He hears a quiet groan and feels the kid shake his head lightly, so hurries up his efforts to balance Peter upright again. Tony doesn’t hug him. Instead, he focuses on trying to be some kind of reassuring to the dead weight child in his arms and half-carrying him through the halls on the way. They don’t speak. He doesn’t really expect much from Peter at the minute. Oddly enough, the spiderling seems to be  _ shivering,  _ even though it’s just verging on uncomfortably warm for Tony. Whether it’s because of the injuries or because of something else — spiders are cold-blooded, right…? — he doesn’t know, doesn’t really  _ want _ to know. He hoists Peter up a little closer to him, to the point that he’s nearly carrying the young hero completely now. It’s a good thing the room is just a few meters away now, and FRIDAY unlocks the door, because Tony is not the young man he used to be and his back is really gonna ache tomorrow — carrying a spider-kid around is tough. 

“Kid, we’re here. This room is yours.” And then, noticing how commanding his tone must seem, he hastily adds, “If you want it.”

 

He doesn’t receive an audible response, but instead, Peter’s weight lifts off him and slowly, the kid staggers upright, one pale hand on the door frame, as he peers into the room. His face is oddly blank, like it’s being carefully held neutral. For a second he fears he’s done something wrong, but his anxieties are allayed when a small, shaky grin rises up onto Peter’s face. It makes Tony’s day.

“You did this- you did this for… for  _ me?”  _ Peter turns to look at him, eyes wide, mouth gaping. The interiors of Peter’s room, red and blue with posters and other knick-knacks Tony thought the kid would like littering the place, stand out clearly.

“Every room in the compound gets personalised, kid. I wanted this to be a surprise, but…”

“I  _ love _ it.” Peter steps forward and stumbles. When Tony catches him, he’s careful to avoid those chest wounds. Yeah, he’s learned from last time (and he’s determined to do right by this kid).

 

He hears this sound from Peter, a breathless laugh as he turns slowly and takes in every last centimetre of the room. There are posters, dozens of them, of old movies and bands and heroes (he makes sure to take a mental note of the oversized Spider-Man logo on the wall on the white backdrop of the frame). There’s a frankly massive bed against one of the walls, opposite the giant windows, and a large desk next to what looks like an en suite with bean bags and  _ plenty  _ of nooks to store and hide things in.

 

It’s perfect. The room is half the size of the apartment. And the bed looks ridiculously soft. Peter shrugs off the arm on his shoulder and flops down onto the bed, feeling the air rush out of the comforter on impact. His eyes flutter shut, arms extended outwards; he’s weightless. He could almost relax.

“Thank you.”

 

Tony looks up from his hands at the quiet words. Peter’s sprawled across the bed, eyes closed, fists lazily clenching and relaxing in the material of the comforter. Given his exhaustion, that kid definitely isn’t going to be getting back up from that bed for at least a solid twelve hours now. Peter seems to know this, too — he pulls himself up so his entire body is on the bed and curls up into a little ball at the centre.

 

He’s so small.

 

He can’t just leave Peter like this.

“Kid, if you’re gonna- you’re cold, you need to go  _ under _ the comforter.” Peter opens an eye and looks blearily at him, as if saying,  _ ‘you really think I’m going to move now?’  _ It’s a valid thought — the kid looks dead on his feet and he isn’t even standing.

“‘m good, Mis’er Stark. ‘m good. Th- thank you.”

He sighs. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

 

Tony steps forward from the doorway, towards the bed, bends low, and scoops Peter up like a baby. It’s hell on his back and he’s going to be not very happy with this course of action tomorrow, but right now, it’s worth it to make sure this kid can at least be comfy after all he’s been through. Tony ignores Peter’s slurred protests and weak attempt at pushing himself away, and pulls the comforter up before resting the tired child down. Peter might as well be dead to the world by now — he doesn’t even stir as his body comes to rest fully against the mattress, bruises standing out sharply against the red sheets. The way the kid’s curls splay out around his head like a tiny messy halo has him reaching out to fluff them before he yanks his hand back quickly, eyes wide, and forces stiffness into his posture. Nope. Not today. Tony pulls the comforter up to Peter’s chest, covering those bruised limbs, and steps backward.

 

He only looks back once, when he gets to the door frame. FRIDAY has taken the liberty of dimming the room’s lights now the young occupant is asleep, so he can only see a little vague lump on the centre of the bed.

“Goodnight, Peter.”

He gets a sleepy reply, one too slurred to make sense of, but he can guess what the kid said.

 

_ Thank you. _

  
  


Tony leaves the room. He hopes the kid gets some decent rest in. He deserves it. Really, he just hopes Peter feels somewhat safer in his own room.

 

He knows that between their shared boatload of issues, it’s gonna be tough, but there’s something in Peter that Tony  _ knows  _ is worth helping guide and raise. If  _ he _ can survive and live after everything he’s been through, then this kid sure as hell can — he’s stronger than Tony in  _ so _ many ways that aren’t just literal. The kid’s gonna be better than him, that much is clear, and he’s happy about it.

  
He just  _ knows _ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imagery central and also A Dad 
> 
> please tell me how i did, yada yada, reviews give me life and help combat my depression

**Author's Note:**

> I might do a second chapter about Tony's reaction to finding out how Peter got his injuries. Probably will. I can never make anything single chaptered anyway.
> 
> But yeah, I hope you enjoyed! This was a neat little way to get a better feel for May's and Happy's characters! Comment down below, tell me what you thought, leave me things you want me to write! <3
> 
> Have a great day / night! <3


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